we have two pinecones on the mantel. because, well, in these times, under these circumstances, in the middle of this middle, one pinecone doesn’t seem like enough.
we enter the new year.
and we draw on the pinecone – its symbolism is hopeful with descriptors of meaning like resilience, regeneration, connection to higher consciousness, abundance, good fortune and protection. right now, there is not much i wouldn’t put on the mantel to ward off negative influences.
pinecones on the trail always get my attention. there’s something about the starkness against the snow that is simply beautiful. and, on this day when everything was so vivid, this pinecone invited me to kneel down and capture it.
if there was anything i would like to remember – every single day – this new year, it would be just that – that everything is vivid, everything is inviting our notice. i would hope to remember to pay heed to all that is around me – even the simplest of it all, the seemingly inconsequential. i would hope to remember to kneel in the snow.
for as each day ends i feel that i will find – as i sort through the hours and minutes – that it was the least of it all that made me feel most alive, the least of it all that made me know that my one, wild life includes pinecones and deer tracks, cold fog over the lake, dogga’s sighs, the holding glance from d, the suspended ninth. it includes the belly laughs, sous-cheffing next to each other, the first sip of coffee, our favorite trail. it includes new gutters and rube goldberg fixes, fuel pumps and matching flannel pjs. it includes the birds at our feeder, the squirrels on the wires, the last hugs we had from our kids, the sun lingering in a pink-peach-fire dusk sky.
sometimes the most important stuff is the least important stuff. the things that carry us from one day to the next in troubled times, the things that sustain our will and buoy our faith, the things that give us courage and let us exhale.
pretty much each year – for years – we have had a frog in our pond out back.
but this year there was simply nothing.
to say we were disappointed would understate how much these frogs have meant to us. we were pretty sad and wondered if we had done something that had inhibited a frog from choosing our tiny pond as a summer home.
until a few days ago.
d had seen a glimpse of green hopping in the water a few days prior, but we could not tiptoe up to the pond quietly enough to see it sunning on a rock or watching the world go by, tucked into a nook or cranny. we thought it was simply a momentary visit.
on thursday, though, we had a lucky day. and, as we stood quietly at the side of our pond, scouring the edges for a sighting of a frog, there he was.
little.
we named him “little” not at all having to do with his import to us, but because he seemed one of the smallest frogs to have lived in our pond.
you would have thought we had found gold coins hidden in the rocks of our water feature – our excitement was off the charts.
and – because every frog needs a theme song – i could instantly hear his in my head (sung to the tune of sugar, sugarby the archies): little – ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ oh, little little ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ you are our tiny frog/ and you got us hop-hoppin. (etc etc etc)
each year has brought a different reason to look for the meaning of a frog’s visit in our personal world. each year the resilience and transformation, renewal and abundance messages have been positive bits of symbolism for us and have made us feel that grace has dropped in for a visit.
this year is no different. little’s appearance has been like a single candle lit in a dark night – a warm glow, a talisman for reflection and hope.
we never know how long the frog will stay. but we do know that just making an appearance is a gift. for our small pond – in the middle of other suburban yards of grass and gardens – is maybe 18 square feet – and it seems fortuitous that a tiny frog would even find it.
but maybe somewhere in frogland there is a list…and frogs can check it – like airbnb – to see where they might find a little pond they can call their own. or maybe where it is they may be named and doted upon. or maybe where it is they might get their own theme song.
“survival lies in sanity, and sanity lies in paying attention…” (julia cameron – the artist’s way)
here’s the thing i have discovered about mint: it is a survivor.
we bought the scrawniest mint plants – looking like they were fading away even as we paid our $2 for them. we brought them home and planted them in some good soil in an old barnwood planter that is somewhat self-destructing. we put the planter on the seat part of an old kitchen chair in the corner of our tiny potting stand garden, knowing that the sun would reach these tiny hopefuls and that these container gardens would have my rapt attention. and then we basically backed up and let nature do its thing.
and, despite some seriously hot weather, some seriously wet weather, some serious challenges from neighboring vines wishing to choke off access to nutrients, the mint has prevailed. it just keeps keeping on and the planters are burgeoning with mounds of luscious green mint.
i had heard – from people who know their stuff – that it would be important to keep mint in a planter rather than planting it in the ground. they said that mint would take over all else in the garden. i can see where that might be true – it is pervasive and aggressive about growing – resilient and tenacious and not at all timid.
which brings me to what i believe might be a good definition of an artist.
i had to have a crown re-affixed this past week – my utterly superb dentist simply popped the crown back on and aimed a blue light of some magical quality that will make it stay there. while i had my mouth gaping open he asked how we were and what we were up to. without the aid of consonants i said, “artist stuff” and he nodded.
artist stuff.
probably a better answer than “oh, we’re just being mint. you know.”
and yet, it is the job of an artist … to be mint. to be pervasive and aggressive about growing, resilient, tenacious and not at all timid. to keep growing despite all the odds, to keep creating regardless of acidic soil or toxic chance of sunstroke or over-saturation or dehydration. to keep paying attention and asking questions and pushing the boundaries – to simply survive.
I wouldn’t have compared myself (or d) to mint before. I would have preferred being sweet basil or maybe spicy jalapeños or willowy dill. or, better yet, i might like to be a pale pink sarah bernhardt peony or a daisy or a sunflower rising above a verdant farm field. mint seems so….survivalist.
but – even as i mosey through that fantasyland – the one where i am gracefully encompassing a body that is tasked with, well, different tasks – ones that are rewarded in traditional fiscally-rewarding ways – i am grateful to have been burdened with these tasks, the task of mint.
to keep on keeping on. to be as beautiful as the ordinary can be. to cling to living and to encourage others to pay attention to the very littlest things. to dance and laugh and sing raucously and to raindance sanity from the universe-sky to a world that is not sane.
“i believe art is utterly important. it is one of the things that could save us.”(mary oliver)
“only when a fire sweeps through, melting the resin, do these heat-dependent cones open up, releasing seeds that are then distributed by wind and gravity.” (national forest foundation)
one by one we fed ten lodgepole pine cones into our small solstice fire. one by one we silently whispered a prayer, a wish, a hope for each one. one by one we watched them ignite, slowly burning off the resin and sending off invisible seeds into the universe.
it was a perfect summer night. the wind had shifted off the lake and it was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been. we sat on the back patio for hours. it was quiet, peaceful.
it seemed a good night to look to something new, to celebrate the light of the solstice, the potency of life. it seemed a good night to lean into the lodgepole’s protection from unwanted energy, from evil influences. it seemed a good night to embrace resilience and renewal.
we have saved these pinecones, ever so slowly choosing them for release from a boxful that had been gifted us by a dear friend for our wedding. her words about fire and light and rejuvenation were truly soul gifts and we hold closely these precious lodgepole pinecones.
this morning i read that pine is “generally associated with longevity and wisdom, instilling courage and optimism.”
in the coincidence of the universe, these were a few of the words i held as i watched the pinecones i added to our solstice fire burn.
breck is strong, its trunk is solid, it’s rooted and feels grounded as it grows not only taller, but seems to have more and more branches filled with more and more beautiful aspen leaves.
this is the year. breck is a tree.
in the last years of saplinghood, our tiny aspen has had more than its share of challenges. from its beginnings in a pot we carried from city market in breckenridge to its ability to withstand the seasons in a big clay pot on our deck to being planted in a dark corner feathery fern garden where it suffocatingly couldn’t fully see the sun to transplanting to a different garden out back, the curving of its trunk as the west winds buffeted its more fragile spirit, its fight to resiliently stand tall, its skinny jack-in-the-beanstalk growth last year, odd leafing and an infestation of aphids, ants and wasps. and now, there it is – right there, out back – proudly standing tall, loved through it all. rooted, grounded, healthy.
i would draw the parallel between me and breck and our last few years were it not to be that i’d like to linger more in now, look more toward next. the challenges have been plentiful, the sun minimal, the wind battering, the growth sporadic.
but i would also draw the parallel between me and breck – once you get some real roots under you, once you transplant out of the dark corner garden, once you feel the sun and can breathe in fresh air, once you fight to stay centered, once you steadfastly feel grounded in who you are, once you resiliently stand tall growing and leafing, loved through it all, you are far more likely to be a tree.
we have a front seat to the meadow. each time we hike, we are witness to the lace and humbled by powerful nature, its resilience and rejuvenation.
the lace is tightly wound in the spring, fresh, straining to burst. we watch it as it then gently opens to the sun. we watch it embrace full sky. we watch it as it folds in on itself in the fall, storing energy. we watch it as it releases seeds for next.
the lace is transcendent. it does not push back against this progress. it somehow knows that moving through phases are, indeed, all part of the journey. and nature’s lessons are clear. life is not linear. there are cycles. there is next. there is much interdependence in the meadow to sustain all life there.
and through it all, the lace is empowered. to trust the process, to keep going, to stand strong, to gracefully be open, to share in the synergy of all – all the wildflowers, all the underbrush, all the weeds, all the trees, all the insects, all the wildlife – in the meadow. to survive.
i hadn’t seen a pink daylily before. but one of our neighbors along the lakefront has a few in their garden. beautiful! i looked it up. i did not know there were so many varieties. the things you learn…
our front yard has come a long way. there is a lawn now, with many thanks to our dear grassking. all along the old brick wall are orange daylilies. along the side fence in the backyard are yellow daylilies. and along the west fence are maroon daylilies. they all came from our friend sally’s garden – she had a few too many and, years ago, we wheelbarrowed a bunch from her house to ours. clearly they love it here. they have multiplied and filled out the gardens. they are simple flowers, nothing fancy. but we aren’t too fancy ourselves, so it seems fitting.
these are stalwart flowers, particularly the ones along the front wall. they had much upheaval during the great water line replacement project. they prevailed – even in the midst of the chaos that followed – our yard ripped up and salad-tossed with all kinds of excavated and project debris. we transplanted them as we reconfigured the garden along the wall. they stuck it out. we seeded and fertilized and watered and tended the grass. we didn’t pay that much attention to the plants, assuming we might lose them as they also took the brunt of the big equipment. but the low-maintenance daylilies kept on keeping on. and now, their abundance is stunning.
i’ve tried fancier flowers. but they have stubbornly not cooperated. it’s like our yard is telling us – no,no…these…these grasses, these daylilies, this hydrangea, these ferns…these are good…these are right.
there is a simplicity.
and there is a steadfastness.
and the daylilies stand now – side by side – with the ever-stunning peonies out back. they languish next to graceful grasses and across the yard from the tall ferns. along with wild geranium they frame barney and the chippie condo this old piano has become.
and they rock and roll in front of the old brick wall – a mass of orange and green.
even in the midst of chaos, the midst of upheaval, the midst of the unexpected, the midst of the disappointing, these simple flowers have been tolerantly intrepid. they have been resilient. in tutti, they have withstood and they have come back healthier, more robust, reverberant.
because beauty is not quiet. it always finds a way through the messy.
the last thing i expected to see – when we left the building – was anything of beauty.
and yet, there it was. just a little down the hill. growing out of a crack on the city sidewalk, a prickly thistle – with all its thorns – in full bloom.
the flowers were dynamic and dimensional. spiny. seuss-ish.
the plant stopped me. it stopped all thought. it stopped all manner of anything. it was that unexpected. and suddenly, i was distracted. and it was all about the musk thistle blooms. the mystery of prickly and stunning co-existing, a plant that can grow where others cannot.
and for a few moments, i was lost to texture and color…fuchsia and pink, purple and maroon, my heart lifting.
it is said – in the celtic tradition – that the thistle represents resilience.
the chicago botanic garden spring field guide arrived. a really beautiful small magazine of images and quotes and information, i have kept it nearby to peruse from time to time. on the last page – under a stunning close-up photograph of the bud of an orange tulip poised to open – are the words “thank you for helping us thrive.” the text goes on to express appreciation for members who “allow our community of plants and people to flourish.” without members and their support, the garden would falter. instead, they are thriving. “come alive this spring at the garden,” they encourage.
there are moments – as an artist – that you feel truly alive…even more than other moments.
the moment the theatre audience stands at the end of your concert. and – maybe even more – the moment of hush at the beginning when first sitting at the piano, boom mic poised.
the moment – performing in the glaring sunlight on a flatbed trailer or in the artificial light of a wholesale or retail show – people come to the very edge of the flatbed or the edge of your booth to tell you that your music has comforted them in a time of sorrow or has accompanied them in a time of joy.
the moment you open email to find a message – someone has taken precious time to write to you – that says, “our favorite piece of yours came on dish radio and we danced!”.
the moment someone orders twenty copies of a cd to give to all their family members.
the moment someone writes to comment on the many-many words you have penned.
the moment someone comments on your cartoon “i can relate.”
the moment someone says, “you have no idea how much of an impact you make.”
that is true. we actually don’t. have any idea.
it is with an abundance of gratitude that i think of anyone who has supported my – and our – creative work in the world: purchasing cds or tracks or tickets to a concert, forwarding a blogpost or cartoon, hanging a painting, sending us a written card or a virtual coffee. you have helped us thrive.
when you wear the shoes of an artist, you are not necessarily aware of any dent in the air you have made. you are not aware of the seeds of thought or questions or perhaps, hopefully, goodness that are scattered in concentric circles or in the breeze around or after you.
this minute magazine is full of inadvertent wisdom.
“love in bloom” is the garden’s initiative june 3 – september 24. magnolias and redbuds, tulips and shooting stars, azaleas and irises start off the spring. “blooms aplenty.”
you’re an artist and you know that your life is different; it lacks the security – particularly financial security – of others’ lives. the moment you look at the total bill for one of your full-length recordings you are reminded. the moment you open your meager royalty checks – in these days of online streaming – you are reminded. the moments you ponder what’s next. you are encouraged by people to make another album, author a book, produce more cartoons, yet you know that any of these are without the good heart-and-mind-fertilizer of solid footing, as there is no promised return on your dedication or time or that vulnerability that comes with the territory. yet, i stand next to my piano and ponder the scraps of songs, i linger over the keyboard of my macbook, wordsmithing manuscript, i lay out the next smack-dab and write the next blogpost. blooms aplenty. yes. asking for help? not so much.
“we hope you find inspiration in the brilliance of spring,” on a page listing 80,500 bulbs planted-last-fall.
you’re an artist. and you hope there is inspiration – even an incandescent filmy thread – in your work.
“the woods are a recovery story of resilience and bouncing back…” writes the managing ecologist, woodlands.
the albums, blogs, manuscripts, paintings, cartoon strips – all recovery stories of resilience and bouncing back. we – artists – are on tiny trampolines in the world, trying.
“consider making a gift so that we can protect and celebrate the natural world for many seasons to come,” rounds out the garden’s “thank you for helping us thrive” message.
share. pass on. join. follow. gift. donate. purchase. download. consider coffee. consider being a patron to an artist – of any medium – who helps you move from one day to another, one season to another.
“discover the world of spring ephemerals. the garden’s mcdonald woods…ephemeral wildflowers make their brief appearance.”
we – artists – are ephemeral wildflowers, making a brief appearance in this universe, ready for anyone who wishes to catch a glimpse, to share in the synergy of our art.
“in years with little to no spring rain, ephemerals produce fewer flowers and less seed, which can impact their ability to bounce back in future years….if plants are healthy enough and if they have the right natural disturbances such as fire, they are resistant to annual variability in the weather and can adapt to longer-term climate change.”
“i want to know if you will stand in the fire with me and not shrink back.”(oriah mountain dreamer)
we – ephemeral artists on our tiny trampolines – need the rain. we need the fire. we need you to stand in the fire with us. we need your help.
i hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. but – suddenly – it was just as obvious an interruption to me as night is to day.
resilience is a support organization in chicago – “empowering survivors ending sexual violence” is their byline. their presence is powerful, necessary, moving survivors forward in healing and advocacy, providing education and empathy. there was nothing like that on long island in 1978.
my life was forever interrupted. and i just realized that. because – back in 1978 – i filed it all away – all the trauma, all the grief, all the stripping of innocence, all the betrayal – i placed it on a shelf in my heart i didn’t want to access, a place i didn’t want to go. no one really talked about it. i moved on.
only i didn’t.
the night-that-turned-my-day-dark wrapped itself around me and, in all likelihood, affected every single decision – good and bad – that i made from that day forward. it acted like a filter – like the kind you screw onto the front of a 35mm camera lens, coloring every scene in the aperture, every experience in life. just as in so many of these stories, no one was made to take responsibility for this act of life-interruption, for the thing that would skew everything in my heart. i was nineteen and he was free. he still is.
there are defining moments in our lives that lay down a blanket of circumstance, that wound in all directions. sexual violence is one of those.
even now – 45 years later – though i cannot dredge up all the minute details as they seem locked up on that shelf – i can feel the interruption of my life – the unmooring – the visceral line of before and after.
the sun is setting through the trees and i suddenly see clearly through the woods, without underbrush. i can feel the night fall.
the thing that has helped is that 45 years has granted me people who have been there, who have held me in grace despite it all, who have loved me even as i – at times – flailed.
i wouldn’t hope for anyone to experience the pain of sexual violence of any sort. but, because women are insanely statistically likely to be victimized and betrayed in this way, i would hope for their resilient spirits and bodies to see the enormous life interruption for what it is and to rise in the sun the next day – surviving – accessing hope, surrounded by loving support, empowered.
reverse threading 