“know then that the body is merely a garment. go seek the wearer, not the cloak.” (rumi)
and the babycat chair – cloaked in snow – shielded all from the view of its real soul. its new trapping hides its decrepit wickered weave. one would not know not to sit – certainly not to sit back – with snow covering this seat, this chairback. the babycat chair’s garment of white belies what is truly there.
and yet, this chair – the other day – seated a squirrel or two. as i watched out the window, they took turns sitting, munching on something i could not identify, comfortable squatting on this handy seat.
i – like you – have known plenty of people who have cloaked themselves in all the trends, who have kept up in fashion, who dress for the time and continually refresh their wardrobe. indeed, they look fabulous and, like just wearing the right couture, their vehicles and homes and sundries are all cloaked in that same shiny wrap. with some, it might be hard to gauge what is truly inside, what soul is silent, what soul is loud. we may not know but we are entranced by the packaging, the masking, the shell – that which is superficial, evanescent, transient.
the spirit of the babycat chair carries on, with or without snow. its aging – like the aging of barney-the-old-piano in our backyard – lifts up the unchanging truth that aging is not negotiable.
we – inside our cloaks – whatever they might be – transcend the broken wicker of what we put on to cover who we are. like the babycat chair – but exponentially – the spirit of what we mean, what we have meant, remains.
what do we each choose that to be, individually, in community, in this world?
in the initial moments when we clear our barnwood potting stand – pull all the plants for composting, stack the clay pots and garden tools to be put away, brush off the stand, close the wrought iron gate, and then step back – i feel a sadness for the loss of our tiny garden. this year yielded a wild crop of herbs and tomatoes, jalapeños and lavender. we thoroughly enjoyed our sweet potato vines and our miniature licorice plant, the sweet dianthus, our peonies. this summer’s heat and humidity was a boon to our backyard. so it is somewhat hard to see it ending.
but the tacet of our garden – after such an amazing fully-bloomed tutti – is just as important in its performance. the quiet of this time will serve to gather its energy, to bring impact to subsequent growth, to give rest to roots bound by pots.
this winter we will propagate some of our summer plants. it is a new venture, introduced to us by the gift of our dear friend – a small indoor greenhouse. we will be learning what these tiny plants need, trying to help them root, keep them alive, bring them back – out of silence – to a spring in which we have a bit of a headstart.
the clearing of our house is kind of like that, too, as we move from room to room, closet to closet, drawer to drawer, bin to bin. we are still in phase one of all this, but each bit of giveaway, of throwaway, of repurposing gives air to some more space and in that space i can hear the vibrations of possibility gathering.
there are two new fuzzy white pillows in my studio on a metal strapped swivel patio chair we brought up from the basement. it feels like sitting in that chair – sinking in – could lend itself to the expression of the tacet i’ve been in, the long time of fallow. i don’t know what that means. it could just mean gaining clarity. it could mean setting it all aside. it could mean a few new notes that lead to a few new songs. the times d mentions the word “when” i counter with the word “if” because i really don’t know. there’s been a lot of pain and the wounds haven’t yet healed over. the tacet and my reticence continue.
but the potting stand reminds me: even after a period of silence, a period of fallow and nothing really happening, there is actually much in play. energy is stoking up. the time of rest is giving import to the time of sprouting. and, though this summer’s heat and humidity were incredibly generative – much like the middle years of my artist life – so will be next summer’s heat and humidity, even if the conditions are different, even if the heat and humidity are less intense. it is still a growth season.
just like now. the season has not ended with the pulling of plants from pots. negative space defines positive space, silence creates tension, the narrative of our plants continues.
“life hack: stop trying to be cool. be nerdy and obsessive about the things you love. enthusiasm will get you farther than indifference.” (posted on barkersounds IG)
this could possibly be my new mantra. nerdy and obsessive and (possibly overly) enthusiastic.
indifference slays me. the whole aloof, apathetic, flippant thing. all that gets under my skin, which is particularly sensitive to all the stuff on the opposite end of the spectrum from nerdy, obsessive about the things you love, and enthusiastic.
so that might explain the excessive photographs of barney, the old piano in our backyard, losing keys and structure in each season, its patina dusty wood. it might explain the innumerable pictures of breck – in every season – its leaves – budding in early spring through its golden age in autumn. it might explain why i take a zillion photos and generally completely annoy my adult children with my wish to capture them on film (well, “film” so to speak).
my sweet momma was a person who was also pretty nerdy and obsessive about the things she loved and, most definitely, enthusiastic. her “wowee!!!” goes down in history as a word she owned, and each of us knows we are referring to our beaky when we use that word.
life is short. that becomes more and more apparent as the years go flying by. the age spots on breck’s leaves are like the age spots i find on my own person. everything is fluid and keeps changing and the youth of our budding – like our aspen’s – is fleeting.
i can see no reason to not be nerdy. i can see no reason not to be obsessive about the things i love. and – yes – i can see no reason not to be ridiculously enthusiastic.
it made me cry. it was all i could do not to down-and-out messy cry. had i lost control it would have been ugly. i grieved for every single american child as i struggled and hiccuped my way back to some semblance of calm. phil vassar’s lyrics were poignant and profound and deeply troubling.
the concert was amazing. phil vassar is a prolific songwriter, a consummate performer, his voice strong, his ballads clear. i’ve seen him in concert several times and was thrilled to see him again. he is now 63 and, having had both a heart attack and a stroke, he is making his way back – to the attention of the public – for the public forgets quickly.
there are artists you hold onto, particularly when you are an artist yourself. you know when there is something absolutely special about someone – you can feel it. every song, every note, every sung lyric – this man is a master singer-songwriter. there’s nothing really fancy about him…he plays a painted acoustic yamaha piano, often standing (which i can totally relate to). his band is extraordinary and tight, the perfect backup for him.
“cause 419 lakewood had no silver spoons/just an old beat up upright that played out of tune/now i’m singing and living the life that i love/and when i count my blessings i thank god i was an american child/an american child/’cause dreams can grow wild born inside an american child.” (american child – phil vassar)
every american child.
and that’s why i cried. because it’s no longer the same. i cried for my adult children. i cried for my friends’ grandchildren. i cried for the children i don’t know. i cried for what this country has lost, the dreams that have been violently stolen, the hope that has dissolved, the democracy that hangs by tiny filaments.
at the end of the concert, phil vassar – in seemingly no hurry at all – sat on the edge of the stage and chatted with people, took selfies with his fans, signed shirts and hats and cds.
i stood at our seats and watched, both proud of him and a little bit stunned at how very gracious he was – his obvious, deep gratitude to a concert hall that should have been filled.
i knew he couldn’t hear me – and i didn’t go up to tell him – but as i stood there i whispered, “you’re relevant, phil vassar. you’re so relevant.” deep down, he already knows. he’s always been relevant.
an american child. the american dream.
“there is no trust more sacred than the one the world holds with children. there is no duty more important than ensuring that their rights are respected, that their welfare is protected, that their lives are free from fear and want and that they can grow up in peace.” (kofi annan)
“a promise once made/will it shine, will it fade/will we rise with the vision or fall?” (american child – john denver)
it’s the last two. the very last two jalapeño peppers. today or tomorrow we’ll make ann’s jalapeño poppers recipe and celebrate the crazy-abundant harvest of these two relatively small plants. their season is clearly over; there are no tiny flowers left, there are no miniature peppers. these plants are done producing. but, in a new discovery, i have found that we can overwinter these perennials (more easily sustained in warm climes) – if we bring them indoors before the first frost we can give them a headstart for next year.
last year we only had one plant. its harvest is what convinced us to have two this year. maybe next year it’ll be three. in these last years, we have discovered the equation of this garden – what we get out of this garden is a direct result of what we put into it. it – and the experience of it – remain part of us, for we have paid attention to it.
like artistry – if you follow the imperative – being true to who you are – and who you’ve been and who you are becoming – and not beholden to societal expectations or fiscal returns – its produce potential is crazy-abundant. amorphous, ethereal, it will shape and re-shape, build and break down, condense and stretch – you are feeding it always. in the quiet and in the noisy, in season and out-of-season, overwintering. it’s all fluid, continuous.
i wonder when i will compose again. sometimes i can feel it building – the tension of the imperative. on those days i walk into my studio and touch my piano. it’s just a gesture, an acknowledgement. but it counts. it connects me back and forward, both. it is perennial.
and i can see – they are one and the same – these jalapeños and my music.
“not even the tiniest perennial grows only to die. it comes back again and again when the season and the time is right.” (kate mcgahan)
we pulled up to the recycling tent to drop off the computer-type equipment we had – several old printers and associated cables and plugs. we had been looking forward to this event – an earth day event held locally – in order to continue the purge of stuff, but in the most environmentally-friendly ways.
there were a few people in the tent waiting to help and we really appreciated their work volunteering. they immediately moved forward to our vehicle to help us unload.
i got back into littlebabyscion and glanced over through my fully-open window to repeat our thanks. that’s when i saw one guy glaring at littlebabyscion and saying something to someone next to him. the focus of his gaze was undeniable.
i decided instantly.
“looking at our wheels, eh?” i addressed the guy.
he looked at me, surprised to be caught in the moment, “uhhh….yeah.”
“well, they may not be fancy but this little xb has faithfully driven 280,000 miles,” i bragged.
he stammered. “wow, that’s really cool,” he managed.
“yup,” i said. and then, pretty emphatically, “you can’t judge a book by its cover!”
i’m hoping he felt a little bit sheepish after we drove away. it is not likely, but i still hope he did.
now, to be fair, littlebabyscion’s wheels are the stuff of grimace-potential. the outer layer of aluminum alloy is both peeling and rusting – but, hey, so are we – after a few hundred thousand miles. we have plans to take a steel brush to these wheels – on a non-windy day – to clean them up a bit, make them less shoddy-looking, but it hasn’t been a top priority. glimmering, shiny wheels are not as important as some other tasks or chores, so babyscion’s rims just need to get in line. besides, LBS had really shiny rims back in the day – almost 300,000 miles ago. heck, even 100,000 miles ago there was still a bit of sheen. shiny is part of who LBS has been. so, i, for one, am not going to judge this absolutely amazing little vehicle for a bit of wear or a few wrinkles in the middle of dedicated and extended mechanical life. LBS has a really good heart.
we are relatively used to just being us – in a world of people trying to be more. we are artists, remember.
and so, we are people who have walked this walk – the one of being the book judged by the cover. we have also repurposed with fervor, made-do with less, driven with not-so-perfect rims. and we stick to the be-you mantra. we are not going to participate in the judging of books by their covers. we are going to seek heart. no matter the difference, no matter the sameness – we believe that being you – the best and most filled-with-goodness you – is all you can or should be. and we are here to lift you up in that. we are not going to grimace or glare or make snide comments at you in your pursuit of goodness. our job – as humans – with kindness and generosity and acceptance and grace our north stars – is to be us and to let you be you.
hopefully hearts are more important to you than shiny rims.
and nature hung chandeliers all over the woods. shooting star chandeliers in celebration of warm spring days – tucked next to majestic oaks, stars flying across the meadow. but not for long. as summer heats up these will fade. everything has its time.
aging is a funny thing. but it is not in the way of the enchanting shooting star – for those will come back the next spring, ever-resilient, perennial.
instead, aging is a bit more like an annual. periods of growth followed by fallow. uncertainty. we struggle with what is ours to do – we struggle with how that changes – we recognize endings and, thankfully, beginnings. but our time as chandeliers is not limitless. and, as we process that, we are less devoted to the zealous striding of our younger selves and more to the mission of the expression of ourselves.
i have thousands of cds in the basement. all cds with my name on them, ready to be shipped. smack-dab in the heyday of my career-with-a-much-delayed-start, writeable cds became a thing and streaming became rampant. it changed everything. dramatically. suddenly, the tens and tens of thousands of cds i was selling – which merited the thousands in waiting stock – dropped in numbers. streaming and download reports showed hundreds of thousands of hits but merely tiny slices of a penny for each one. it is stunningly gut-wrenching to look back at the shooting stars as they burned out.
people ask me if i am still “doing music” when they see me. because it is who i am i always say yes. and then i think about the boxes of cd stock in the basement and any latent desire to record more. it is hard to justify. very.
but the call of a piano and a boom mic on a stage or in a studio is ever-present. they are part of my chandeliering. and – like wishes on a shooting star – i wonder if one day pale purple flowers might bloom out of the fallow and i might give myself to the astonishing and to the illusion of the standstill of time.
“you are a child of the universe. no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.” (desiderata)
i don’t suppose i ever really fit in. i was the youngest in my family – separated by a decade – while most of my friends had siblings their own age. i grew up in a neighborhood where the kids were somehow athletically gifted, while i took organ and piano lessons and sat in my tree writing poetry. an early entrepreneur, i pulled a wagon around our neighborhood selling baby cactus cuttings and candles i had made. i didn’t go to – or get invited to – wild parties or cut class or skip my homework. i took bike-hikes and walked on the beach in the winter while everyone was at the mall or the bowling alley or the movies. i didn’t listen to the stones or grateful dead or led zeppelin (with the exception, of course, of stairway to heaven – everyone’s prom theme). i listened to john denver and gordon lightfoot and the carpenters. i wore off-brand clothing and didn’t keep up with fashion trends. my momma bought me less expensive boy-pants and found the offbeat stores for shoes-that-look-like-trendy-shoes-but-are-not, like my cherished construction boots. my first car was my dad’s vw beetle, nothing fancy but beloved. i had numerous part-time jobs through high school and then in college and knew the joy of serving corn flakes to both me and my dog missi for dinner. i never thought of myself as weird. but i suppose – if one considers the definition “may have unusual habits, interests or ways of thinking that set them apart” it could be true. i don’t see that as negative, though i also suppose that – depending on the way you see yourself fitting into the world – one might consider it such.
so the sticker “stay weird” hung upside down and backwards made me laugh aloud. somehow my laughter summoned mary oliver and she and i enjoyed a good chuckle about the infinite extraordinary of the insignificant and the everyday, the value of seeing the usual through a filter of unusual.
weird took a very long hiatus – it was safer, less vulnerable, and kept me out of trauma i had shelved. i pursued the inevitability of having to make money, to help support a household in a more meaningful way than the way of an artist. for this society – though its love for the arts is profound, its support of the arts is less so.
it was after my children were born, after the imperative was too loud to ignore, after the perils shushed a bit – when it was time to start releasing music. writing, practicing, recording, performing, marketing, booking, hawking – none of this is necessarily standard-work fare – it is unusual, it is tenuous, it requires a bit of courage. it doesn’t have the same parameters as a workday in corporate or structured america. it has no guarantees of reward, no regular paycheck. it is steeped in personal challenges, the need to be scrappy and the sisu to put it out there.
in the time that was the heyday of my recording career i would call absolutely anyone, regardless of their position. as the owner/artist of my label i have talked directly to vice presidents of sales of barnes and noble and borders books and music, owners of publishing houses, the personal managers of ridiculously successful recording/performing artists. i’ve sat in j. peterman’s messy office chatting (of the j.peterman catalog and seinfeld fame) and in the spare chair of radio program directors. i’ve danced across the stage at qvc-tv under a disco ball and played songs live over phone conferences with oncological pharma higher-ups. i’ve stood in the rain on flatbeds playing, embraced boom mics over my piano on theatre stages of all sizes, sang in front of 35000 people in support of cancer survivorship in central park. pushing the boundaries, carrying a little chutzpah along with belief in my own artistry was everyday life – and necessary. and i’d remind myself each time i picked up the phone or stepped into the unknown the very fact that we all breathe in and out the same way. this thing we have in common, i would tell myself – breathing. surely i could connect on that most basic of levels.
as outside the conventional box as it all seems, i didn’t feel weird. i felt in my skin.
and so, apparently, the weird continues. we know we are different than others. we have a certain run-and-jump into vulnerability that others do not. we have a certain pull towards creating, experimenting, learning – all in the public eye. we share because we have to, not because anyone has to receive it.
so, yes, the “stay weird” sticker really spoke to me.
though my life – and our life – is quite a bit different than the traditional lives or retirements of lovely people we know and care about, it is somehow just right for us. i never forget the corn flakes and he never forgets the sleeping bag in his studio space. every everything counts and we are reflexively careful about not being frivolous. for us, weird has granted us a certain appreciation of the littlest things, honoring simplicity and leftover pasta, redundant black thermal shirts and a shared bin of socks, used notebooks and repurposing taken to a new level.
what one does with one’s “wild and precious life”*…
they unfurled from their tiny seahorse stage into real-live ferns in what seemed like moments. all of a sudden, there they were – a whole corner garden of ferns. so incredibly green. lush.
but – even in their zealous and prolific growth – they are fragile. their fronds fall victim to the wind or the dogga’s curiosity, and they are knocked over, with – seemingly – no chance of revival. it seems – perhaps – safer to be in the middle of the bunch of ferns in the garden, rather than on the outskirts.
and i find myself nodding my head, as any artist might nod her head. yes. indeed. safer to be in the middle than on the outskirts, than life as an outlier.
when i finally felt safe enough – when the imperative was too much to ignore any longer – for me to pursue my own artistry – to leave the middle – i knew it was a different route. it would not be the interstate to success. instead, it would be a challenge to stay upright – to keep reaching – when the perils of the outskirts were plentiful.
i knew i should have kept on the road earlier, but there were things that precluded me – that hushed me – and i largely put aside that desperate voice inside of me begging to come back out – the one i had quashed so many years – decades – prior.
but the tiny seahorse fern in me didn’t give up. it kept nagging me until it was finally ok to face the perils.
and i began to write – with the fervency of the ferns in our back garden. my piano was never silent. i kept unfurling, reaching to the sun – an artist coming out of fallow.
and there was music. and more music. the compositions, the songs, the albums populated the garden rapidly – there was much time for which to make up. stages and boom mics and product boxes were the accoutrements of my life. and i could only imagine – and still wonder – what might have happened had it all started earlier, had i fronded in earlier life.
it remains a mystery.
even now – in which the unsuspected and life have mown down some of the outer fronds – there is a core, a center of gravity that holds the fern-muse.
though fragile on the exterior, we are never really broken to the core. there is still time – there is healing, there is a new spring.
“your hand opens and closes, opens and closes…your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding.” (rumi)
brave thistle plant – even in the bitter cold – open. this star in the meadow reminds me to stay open…fluid in breath…in and out.
i sometimes wonder about my music. my grand sits in my studio, waiting. it is patient, although i can sometimes hear it in hushed tones, calling me. there has been much between the last time and now, much that has left me closed to it.
i’ve touched it a few times in a few years. i don’t want it – or anyone, including me – to overreact to that. it is beautiful and full-stick and keys-open and – like the thistle – it bravely stays starlit even in the fallow times. and so, it is – every now and then – inviting. but it is complex – complicated – and it’s obvious I haven’t sorted through all the layers yet.
it is an artist’s imperative to create. but there are no rules that state the medium must remain the same. and so…in these inbetween times…i write. to be open to something different is to dance with that imperative.
the heavy old mic stand tucks right outside the doorway to the studio. it’s holding a vessel for candlelight right now but – at the end of our hallway – it reminds me of microphones and wood stages, simple lighting and boom stands. and then i wonder again – about all that.
the real answer is that i don’t know. i don’t know what will happen in these nexts. i don’t know if i’ll compose more, record more, perform more. there are a lot of ifs between here and there, a lot of details, a lot of stars that must align.
but the little thistle plant in the meadow reminded me that even with all that – all in the galaxy that must cluster – constellations in the cold are possible.
reverse threading 