in the back corner of the storage room – up on the concrete ledge, behind the boiler and the hot water heater, in a bit of cobweb – sat this the metal wheel. next to it was a plastic exercise ball for small rodents and a water dispenser from a habitat used decades ago.
we took them off the shelf and i washed them all off, thinking i could give them away to someone who might have a gerbil or a hamster, saving them from purchasing these items.
but it had been decades since i’d used them – our children were little when we had these tiny pets.
so i decided i’d best do a little research to make sure these were still safe.
they are not.
come to find out that the plastic exercise balls don’t have enough airflow and the metal wheel has been the source of injury for these tiny creatures. into the trash they went.
that wheel, though.
both d and i looked at it and then at each other, rolling our eyes. the wheel – the subject of one of our flawed cartoons – a statement piece.
as artists we are used to less. it’s built in to our dna, it seems. we have stepped to the side of the wheel – choosing something different than the norm, different than the 9-5, with a different imperative, with different rules, different expectations, and with clearly different financial rewards as well. without the security of tenure in an institution or corporation and its advantages (particularly in remuneration, advancement, healthcare plans, retirement), we have forged a different path. we have avoided the faster-faster-faster of the wheel, but not without sacrifice.
most of the populace, however, have chosen more traditional routes and now we are watching the administration destroy those, destroy their stability, destroy the respect due each of them.
at the time of this cartoon’s drawing, my own interpretation of it was more of a boss-worker cynical take.
in these times, one quick look at it in the cartoon files and it took on a life of its own:
the oligarchy vs the people.
because – well – it’s obvious, isn’t it?
the haughty, condescending, inflated, pompous hubris – standing around in their opulent affluence – rolling in it – their plenty – while the rest of the people – the real people – work ever-ever faster to get nowhere – to have not-enough.
i’m glad the wheel went in the trash. it’s where it belongs.
back in the day we could drive out east a bit and purchase long island sweet corn at any number of farmstands along the side of the road. it was a staple in summertime, showing up at every picnic or barbecue.
when i about 16, i flew out to see my brother and his family in central illinois. nothing compared to the view below from the air – cornfields as far as the eye could see. rich, green, thriving fields of field corn.
i return to the moment in that airplane so long ago, looking down on middle america, eyes wide-open, gobsmacked at how pristine those fields looked from the sky. because it is just as stunning each time in the air – even now, many decades later – this atlantic-pacific-gulf-of-mexico-canada crayon-outlined country of america.
and now, we drive across our state on the backroads, innumerable cornfields along the way. highway 81/W/11 coursing its way across wisconsin, on illinois highway 39, along route 151 across iowa, to the letter-named backroads of missouri. any time in the heartland will place you in generous fields of corn-green. it is the corn belt, after all. it is quintessential midwest.
it also seems quintessential that our country – this bright, innovative storehouse of science and data and brilliant minds – would be aggressively concerning itself with climate change – with scientific research and empirical evidence to avoid any further harm to this planet, to protect the fragility and balance of all-things-ecological, to further generative ideas in order to avoid continued or amped-up destruction of this-place-we-call-home, to embrace sustainable and responsible methods of lessening the very real threats of the fallout of rapidly changing climate and intentional negligence by humans.
it would seem pragmatic that the solar farms deep into the fields on the side of the county roads, the wind farms lining the highways also be considered quintessentially american, for these to be so prevalent that their energy production might be a fundamental expression of this country’s fierce protection of the environment.
we all learned early on the responsibility we had on our environment. keep it clean – the bottom line. and though i have in the past stopped people who have thrown trash out of their vehicle window or while walking on a sidewalk or a path, it is not likely that i would do that in every case anymore as i weigh individual circumstances in today’s much more violent world. but i cringe each time i see any such dereliction. “we each have impact,” i think every single time.
from the air or maybe even rushing by on the highway, one can’t see – doesn’t notice – the kwik-trip cups or mcdonalds bags, the plastic grocery bags and water bottles, the emptied ashtrays, the tires in the swale or the couch dumped in the pocket of brush on the side of the road. even walking the streets of small towns speckling this nation reveals a disheartening lack of concern about the nature of nature.
the feeling of responsibility needs to start at the top, for we “little people” can only do so much to protect this environment. our hands are not in the deep pockets of big money. they are – instead – clutching the water bottle or the fast food bag, waiting to dispose of them appropriately, carefully repurposing, recycling, composting, minimizing our waste, trying to make a difference.
never would i have thought that it would be necessary to have statements issued by the international court of justice – the principal judicial arm of the united nations – that would acutely ‘remind’ this country of its accountability in this crisis. never would i have thought that this country – this country – would be ignoring such passionate pleas for holding this planet in protected space. never would i have thought that these words “climate crisis is an existential problem of planetary proportions that imperils all forms of life and the very health of our planet” would be in such acute danger of being sloughed off.
the international court of justice stated that a “clean, healthy and sustainable environment” is a human right.
taking any route across this beautiful sea-to-shining-sea – flying above it or on its myriad of roads or track – eyes open – provides a profound reminder of what we should not be willing to sacrifice.
i could imagine it. dill roasted potatoes. dill on salmon. dill pasta salad. dill in pesto. dill risotto. tzatziki sauce. deviled eggs. the recipes are endless.
so we added dill to the potting stand. a big clay pot with good dirt and lots of sun and a splendid watering wand. and it grew and grew…into a dill tree with lovely willowy branches and fragrance that inspired. until it was ridiculously rainy, ridiculously hot, ridiculously sunny and then – pushing back on the stuff i didn’t know about dill – my dill-ignorance – the dill bolted.
i diligently clipped off the bolting parts, hoping that would suffice – that the dill would forget and resume its normal-growing-program. but – once bolted, always bolted.
so when i saw the tiny caterpillars on a sunday on the dill, i kind of smiled. it made me a little bit happy that they – these half-inch long critters – were munching on this plant.
imagine my surprise when i saw these hefty caterpillars on friday, merely five days later. these are some serious black swallowtail caterpillars. with such quick lifecycles and growth, i am now looking for the chrysalises (yes, i looked up the plural form).
i’ve given over to them. the bolting dill will no longer focus on producing leaves and so my time as a homegrown-dill chef is over for now. next time, i will know to move the dill to a shadier spot, for our potting stand does receive full sun much of the time. next time, i will be more alert, more responsive, more informed.
but for now – well, our $3.98 dill is strictly to support the lives of these two caterpillars and their transformation into butterflies (and maybe others i am unaware of as well). a worthy sacrifice. and one of these days, when i see a couple black butterflies dipping and sailing over our backyard, i will know that we were part of their metamorphosis.
and i’m thinking that $3.98 is not too big a price to pay to witness – and be reminded of – rebirth, new beginnings, positive change and hope, new chapters in life. it’s not too big a price to pay to witness the magic of flight. it’s not too big a price to pay for two happy caterpillars.
“yes, joy is the thing that has returned, and not a moment too soon.”(john pavlovitz)
like you, i’ve interviewed for many positions in my life. many of them were positions in non-profits. i spent thirty-five years as a minister of music in churches. i was asked the question “what do you bring to this job?” multiple times. i always answered the same way: “joy.”“i will always lead with joy,” i would add. and then this: “if you want perfection and not a joy-filled music program, i am not your person.”
as an entrepreneur, recording/performing artist and in managing roles i’ve also interviewed many people. i always looked for joy. for without it, life is flat. for without it, there is rote drudgery. without it, things seem dark. without it, there is doom and gloom, there is no hope, there is no light. without it, worthy projects, generosity and communities will not survive, will not thrive.
in the last two weeks i have been absolutely struck by the absolute change in vibration of the air around us. suddenly – with the advent of change in this election – we can see, hear, taste, FEEL joy. JOY.
“it’s a mystery. grace. it falls on us like morning dew, each and every day. we rise, buoyant or troubled, joyous or grieving, in clarity or murky, in the light or in the dark.we step into next, knowing we have yet another chance.” (nov. 22, 2019 & august 20, 2021)
we are in the grace of joy.
we are feeling hope and light. we are feeling the freedom to laugh, to dance. we are feeling open hearts. we are feeling possibility. to live life. to experience – in all its complexities and differences – in grace – living together. we are tasting the future.
we passed by this nametag sticker stuck to the street merely three days before our president ended his re-election campaign and passed the torch of election to our vice-president. we were crossing the street and when we reached the other side i went back to photograph it. in an incredibly fraught time, “grace” caught my attention. we didn’t know then that a few days later we would be in a different election. we didn’t know that less than two weeks later we would be remembering what real joy is.
in joe’s love for this country and sacrifice of personal ambition and in kamala’s vibrant love of life and dedication to this democracy, we can dream, we can aspire – once again – for the best of what these united states of america can be.
joie de vivre…is falling on us like morning dew…we have yet another chance…
we can choose this. we can vote for this.
“…so everyone can pursue happiness unfettered…”(john pavlovitz)
to the casual observer, i’m sure it looked clandestine: gas station parking lot. man pulls up in newer vehicle. woman pulls up in older-model vehicle to newer vehicle’s driver’s side. woman stays in vehicle and opens passenger window. man gets out and goes to passenger window with envelope. man extends envelope into vehicle. woman extends package toward man. yikes!
the woman in the very-nice-car next to me was watching. i could feel her eyes on the back of my head. i turned toward her and she raised her eyebrows and frowned at me. i made sure to hold the binax-now-covid-self-rapid-test box up high so that she could see it. from the look on her face, i’m guessing she thought that i had disguised the real stuff with this box. 20 and i exchanged envelope and box and, although the envelope had nothing to do with the box at all, and this was just me bringing 20 a rapid test since he couldn’t find any, it appeared – to this woman drawing conclusions – that we had done a deal. ewww.
the last time i felt that way i was in the kansas city airport. i flew in and, with a sizeable bank check in hand, met a complete stranger in the baggage claim area. i was purchasing littlebabyscion and driving it home that same day, but it sure looked kind of suspect.
back-in-the-day, decades ago now, when i worked for the state attorney’s office in florida, my husband was a detective with the sheriff’s department. there are many stories of stings and deals and situations to which i have been privy. some stories are funnier than others. like the time he landed the department helicopter in the field having watched a guy pull marijuana out of a neighboring field and run into the nearby house. from my recollection, when he went to the door a small child answered. he asked if he could speak to his daddy and the innocent little boy said, “right now he’s in the bathroom flushing plants down the toilet.” yes. a different situation.
these are indeed strange times. and we are all trying to do the best we can. we keep track of where we’ve been, who we’ve seen. we are cautious to be vaccinated and boosted and wear masks and sanitize and avoid crowds and obvious circumstances that might be more dangerous from a contagion point of view. we sacrifice some now in order to have a better (and sooner) future without covid. we make soup for others, call on people to check in, deliver groceries, share masks and rapid tests and information.
saturday night we watched a documentary: the first wave. our daughter sent us the link; one of her friends with nat-geo was involved in its production.
if you have forgotten why you are being vigilant, why you are vaccinated, why you are boosted, wearing a mask, isolating, keeping distance, not gathering, not eating in crowded restaurants or going to crowded indoor events, you should watch this movie.
if you have been wondering why you are emotionally and physically exhausted, why you are sometimes edgy, why you have been pining for normal, you should watch this movie.
if you have somehow lost the vision in your mind’s eye of the absolute terror and fear in people’s eyes who have been stricken with covid, you should watch this movie.
if you have forgotten about courage and science and the miracle of others sustaining each other, you should watch this movie.
if you have lost perspective and are just d-o-n-e with it all, you should watch this movie.
our daughter wrote that she had never seen anything like people on respirators, ventilators or in the devastating state this pandemic slammed upon them. i wrote back, still crying from watching, even a half hour after this movie, that neither had i. and the thing i had to keep reminding myself during the movie? that it was real. that it was true. that it still is.
we all know we’d do just about anything for the people we love. it is important – in these times – for us all to be honest and forthcoming. to let each other know if we are at risk, if we might be putting the other at risk, if we are ailing, if we think we are ‘positive’, if we need help or, simply, if we need the emotional support of the people who love us back – standing with us in the middle of it all, even if that is virtual.
our hearts are all connected together. and i would, once again, risk the unfair judgement of a bystander to stay that way.
“together” is an adverb and an adjective. as both, it is a powerful word. as an adverb, it is one of the most reassuring and grounding cues for our hearts. its antonym is “separate” and there are few lonelier words.
during this time of covid we have learned more than we really ever wanted to know about people and their stance on “together”, their dedication of responsibility toward each other, their commitment, or lack thereof, to collaboration and community. these have been hard lessons.
simultaneously, we have learned of people who have dedicated themselves to the safety of others, who have raised community health above self-serving agenda, who have sacrificed for the long-term good rather than pursuing their own short-term pleasure.
and in the midst of all that, there are those – the ones who spurn the brother’s/sister’s keeper together philosophy – who have spent an inordinate amount of time disparaging others – the ones who hold fast to being safe together. and we wonder, why?
though we know we have missed out on plenty through the last year and a half, we also know that we have tried very hard to be aware of what we are doing to keep ourselves and others safe. and the sacrifice has been worth it.
the time of quiet has reminded us of the joy of noise and laughter.
the time of following safety guidelines has reminded us of the ease of the days before – and hopefully after – this pandemic.
and the time of separate has reminded us of the riches of together.
“it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.” (mary oliver)
really, truly exquisite. the last few mornings have been exquisite. we woke up early-early on saturday and sunday morning, nowhere to be, sat and sipped coffee and listened to the quiet world outside. our impulse was to be home, to read together, to write, to go slow, to exercise in the basement, to sit on the deck and watch the birds, the squirrels and the chipmunks, to cook good meals. we felt no need to go anywhere. instead, feeling the sun and breathing in a cool breeze, we reveled in the staying-here.
as headlines point out, the pandemic is heating up. again. the prediction that there will be 300,000 diagnosed daily in mid-august is stunning. so much sickness, so much loss. we feel fortunate to be vaccinated and we are dedicated to continued safe practices. we want at least ten thousand more exquisite mornings, at least ten thousand more days, ten thousand more sleeps. to sacrifice now, we feel, is to bestow upon ourselves a chance at those ten thousand wishes. it IS a serious thing just to be alive. and, even in moments of taking it for granted, we don’t take it for granted.
if i could find a four-leaf clover or blow the puffball off a dandelion or spot a shooting star or spy a haywagon from the back, i would issue a hope for each of us to recognize the gloriousness of this very day, each very-day. to stand in responsibility for each other and to seriously choose to mend the tiniest piece of this broken world for the rest. to stitch together the biggest quilt honoring the inhabitants of this good earth, each thread an acknowledgement of gratitude, each piece of fabric a choice to take care of each other, to live in community the best we can, to do everything possible to keep each other healthy.
just to be alive in this broken world takes some chutzpah. sacrificing for the whole takes some humility. bowing to safety guidelines in a pandemic takes some love.
summer is soon going to draw to a close. it’s august 10 and with today’s feel-like at 96, it’s clearly not anytime too soon. but soon enough.
this summer has been unlike any other. in our deference to the pandemic we have limited ourselves to that which we believe shows regard to recommendations given so as not to be responsible for spreading this. we’ve worn masks. we’ve social distanced. we’ve not eaten in restaurants or stood by barstools sipping wine in enclosed spaces. we haven’t shopped in department stores or had people over in our home, and, differing from every other summer we have had together, we haven’t traveled. it has been unlike any other.
but that isn’t the case for everyone. people have flocked to the beaches and water parks. people have traveled to hot spots – on purpose, in the name of looking for a break. people are eating in restaurants and are gathered at bars and at big backyard barbecues. people are singing in indoor venues and are clustered on sandbars. people have gone to little towns, vacationing and, with the it-won’t-happen-to-us mindset, placing the locale at risk, placing the locals and the health care system in that locale in a precarious way. hundreds of thousands of people are headed to or are gathered in sturgis right now. it’s their summer. and, if you scroll through facebook, it’s not a heck of a lot different than their last summer.
i read a quote today that spoke to the sturgis crowds. “there are people throughout america who have been locked up for months and months,” was the excuse for an influx into this town of 7000. i have to disagree. any instagram or facebook peek will reveal that people are not locked up; many people have lived summer just like they always live summer: any way they want.
in the attention-deficit way of america, many people have simply moved on and their temporarily-outward-gaze has shift-key-shifted selfishly inward. but we are still out here: mask-wearers, social-distancers, stay-close-to-homers, quietly and not-so-quietly trying to mitigate this time. and we can see the others so we are disappointed, saddened and stressed and we are riding the long-limbo-wave of impossible decision-making.
the masses have spoken – at least in this country – and freedom (read: independence from the government mandating for the safety of all) rules.
but freedom isn’t free, as the old up with people song points out, “freedom isn’t free. you’ve got to pay the price, you’ve got to sacrifice, for your liberty.”
i suppose that our sacrifices count, little as that might be in the big picture. as this pandemic continues to rage, as chaos continues to ensue, as relationships shatter over disease-disagreement, our not going to wine-knot matters, our crossing-the-road-to-the-other-sidewalk counts, our consistent mask-wearing-social-distancing makes a difference. it just doesn’t feel that way. the bigger picture looks bleak and my heart sinks looking ahead, fall and winter just over the we-have-so-many-unanswered-questions horizon. whether they (in a countrywide sense) are exercising caution or not, our little part is significant.
the up with people song continues, “but for every man freedom’s the eternal quest. you’re free to give humanity your very best.”
what is our very best? individually? collectively?
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i just asked david if he would illustrate a children’s book i wrote a long, long (did i mention long?) time ago. naturally, he said yes, because, uhh, what else is he going to say? so maybe one of these days you’ll see my snowflake-is-as-raindrop-does story in book form. in the meanwhile, i’ll tell you the story…hopefully succinctly.
once upon a time (because all great stories start like that) there was a little raindrop. after it had fallen out of the sky with a gajillion other raindrops it had a choice. whether to drop-and-roll quickly down the street and be transported through evaporation back up into the sky to reform and do it all over again or – and yes, i am definitely personifying this raindrop – it could choose to roll over to a small plant or tree or blade of grass that needed sustenance. the raindrop believed (had been taught by others?) that this sacrifice would end its journey…there would be no more going-up-into-the-sky-coming-down-as-a-raindrop-all-over-again if it made this choice. but the little raindrop rolled over to a little flower anyway, curled up beside its stem and sighed. what it didn’t realize would happen was this – that it still evaporated. it still went back up into the sky. it still reformed. but this time it was chosen to reform into a beautiful, unique snowflake, an honor bestowed only on those raindrops who had made a difference, who had yielded to a different choice.
so you’re thinking, ok, what does this have to do with snowflakes and snowmen? well, we just never know how our choices will impact our possibility or how we might be surprised by something different than what we perceive to be our intended possibility. you have to admit, being a snowflake in a snowman with a scarf and goofy hat that makes people smile and children dance would seem way more satisfying than being a snowflake in a dirty pile of snow in a parking lot. we learn to go with the flow. sometimes the unanswered prayers -loss of the UNlimited possibilities- turn out to be the best.
reverse threading 