and we are witnesses. to the thistle. to the meadow. to this slice of the earth.
we watch, as time passes. we note changes, dramatic and subtle. we are aware of the nuances of these moments – transitory. we are inside the ephemeral.
we are intentional; we fritter away.
and the thistle is witness to us as we stand still – for little bits of a while – in admiration. our gaze is focused, memorizing beauty, not questioning the randomness of our attention.
just holding it all in wonder. just perceiving the glorious. just unmoving and moved.
sharing this space of time – together – within the perpetuity of it all, what do the thistle, the meadow, this slice of earth see – looking back at us?
there was something about how these speckled leaves were nestled that got my attention.
and, in the way that everything makes me think of something else, it also brought to mind the nursery song five little speckled frogs:
“five green and speckled frogs sitting on a speckled log eating the most delicious bugs, yum, yum
one jumped into the pool where it was nice and cool now there are just four speckled frogs, glub, glub…”
but i digress.
maybe it was the symmetry of the trees. maybe it was the orange and green (which were the exact shades of my growing-up shag rug and the wall-to-wall carpet in our sunroom when we moved in.) maybe it was simply the happenstance of that particular branch of leaves, caught in the little crook made by two trees growing closely together, perhaps inosculated.
whatever the reason, i found it to be a thing of beauty. and those things are out there, everywhere, calling to us – to notice.
i didn’t disturb the leaves. just like i didn’t disturb the blue jay feather i passed on the trail. i left them there – like so many other times – so that others could see them as well.
on the contrary, there have been many snakes on the trail in these last hikes. garter snakes and brown snakes of all sizes – even the tiniest snake i’ve ever seen – sunning on these gorgeous autumn days. but the problem in that is that there are bikers who are populating this trail as well and there have been numerous times we have come across a snake that is deceased or struggling, having been run over by a biker who did not see it.
so, each and every time we see a snake – in the middle of the trail – we stop. we either prompt it to move, escorting it to the side of the trail to which it was headed or, in the case of the struggling or fatally wounded, we pick them up and place them gently in the grass, issuing a tiny blessing and saying, “you are not alone.” we know some of them are in their last moments and, in the way that this universe is all connected, we hope that our holding them for a moment helps them in crossing over.
we immerse in what the trail offers – everything – from helping the tiniest fuzzy caterpillar to taking in a sunset of grandeur. we are grateful for the deep breath it consistently brings to us. we get centered in the step-by-step repetition.
i suppose these are the reasons we find ourselves pondering – imagining – a giant thru-hike in the someday. the opportunity to hold such beauty and be held by such beauty – all around us – is enticing and, surely, delicious.
and all the wishes in the whole wide world gather together. and they wait in the queen anne’s lace, sipping fine champagne and eating bonbons. they wait for their moments, individually and together. every-every queen anne’s lace pod. they wait for the tipping point.
and one day – in the middle of saunas and steambaths, luxurious manis and pedis, chamber orchestras playing taylor swift, candles and lavender pillows, crystal glassware topped off with port – the sun and the moon having risen and fallen many, many times – the wishes release into the world on new morning rays and seeds go every-everywhere.
and they drift and soar and look down from the jetstream at all the people.
we wore pink. our daughter said we’d get bonus points and we love bonus points. so we wore pink. i had on pink converse high-top sneakers and sported a pink floral drawstring backpack. david had on a pink v-neck t-shirt.
and we went to see barbie, the movie.
there’s a lot of talk-talk about this movie. and, for once, i’m not going to enter the fray. instead, i’m just going to say we loved it. and, we’d like to see it again, revisit some of the one-liners and implicit (and explicit) comments on our society. our tickets were from our daughter so it was extra fun to exchange texts about it after-the-fact. mostly, there are some really defining moments in this movie. it is unexpectedly thought-provoking. and, if you haven’t already seen it, we would both absolutely recommend it.
as you already know, when i was young i wasn’t allowed to have a (cultural icon) barbie. in an excerpt from a previous post about barbie and my mother:
“when i was 38 i got a package from my sweet momma. of course, it was from poppo too but he was pretty much a follower on this one. i excitedly opened the big box and there was a note inside. it read something like, “surprise! it’s about time…thought you could have one of these now.” curious, i continued to rapidly unwrap. inside this simply wrapped gift (for my momma had to mail it to me across the country and everyone knows that those sticky bows get squished when you mail them) was —- wait for it —- a barbie doll with chandelier earrings in a huge party dress with pastel flowers glued onto it! now, that – blossom beauty barbie – sounds like an unusual gift at 38, but you have to know the back-story…
my momma would not let me have a barbie when i was growing up. ahead of her time, she felt that the barbie-body was somewhat unconscionably derisive for women and the feminist in her was railing against having her own little girl fall prey to that attitude. and so, she never let me get a barbie of my own. instead, she got me the doll penny brite, an adorable, flat-chested, bright-faced, modestly-dressed doll who just looked 1960s happy. a little later i got a skipper doll, who was barbie’s younger sister – clearly she hadn’t inherited the same physical genes barbie had. not being particularly well-endowed myself, in later years, i teased my mom that she had given me nothing to aspire to, but she just pursed her lips and tried not to laugh.
so this was a big deal – getting a barbie from my momma. it’s too perfect that it happened to be one of the tackiest barbies out there. but i received this from her when i had my own little girl and she probably guessed i was about to start buying her some barbies (so as not to be “the only one” in her group of little girlfriends without one, like me, still recovering from non-barbie-ptsd.) momma was quirky that way.“
but because of my little girl, i was finally able to immerse in barbie-world. so the movie was particularly poignant as a recovered non-barbie-r, errr, delayed-onset barbie-r. the set, the barbie-house, the barbie-car, the use of product messaging, the language … the pink – all the pink – was pretty splendidly on the mark. and the messages were loud and clear. “it is literally impossible to be a woman…” and “it is the best day ever. so was yesterday, and so is tomorrow, and every day from now until forever.” and “you can be anything.” not to mention the quotes about patriarchy and gender inequality and humanness and the digs at capitalism, the question of play, the differences and similarities between men and women. all conversation fodder. ahh, go see it.
and then there is this moment at the end of the movie, when barbie inventor ruth handler (played by rhea perlman) says to barbie, “we mothers stand still so our daughters can look back and see how far they have come.” this moment made me cry.
the passing of the baton. no matter if we are born in 1921, 1959, 1990…the baton gets passed on. and the pink. it took my momma 38 years, but she passed it on. in a curious coincidence, she was 38 when she birthed me. the baton had already been passed. holding still, ever-holding.
we hiked past the dogwood off-trail. the tiny berries were almost all gone and the stems were exposed. pink. i immediately thought of barbie. it was a direct-connect.
and it made me want to run home and put on the converse high-tops i had fished out of my beloved daughter’s closet.
in color psychology, barbie pantone pink is the confluence of femininity, fashion, and vibrancy. in the dictionary, vibrancy is the state of being full of energy and life.
pink. in my world, it reminds me of my beautiful girl and her brilliance in the world.
i’ll be wearing those pink high-tops a little extra this fall.
because we hike these trails often, we notice subtle changes. new sprouts, thicker vegetation, fallen trees, vole-holes on the path.
this day we noticed this large limb – suspended. it had fallen. because we’ve had large limbs fall in our yard, we know that their size – particularly from far away – belies their weight. this broken branch, even dead wood, had to be mighty heavy.
and yet – the next tree over caught it and was holding on. merely three points of contact, like one hand and two feet on a ladder, these three little v’s where significantly smaller branches met. three points. and so, we will watch it. we wonder how – nestled into the other tree – it happened to fall just right. we wonder how long it will be there – high up in the other trees that show no sign of leafing, of life.
support doesn’t take much. it’s astounding to walk in forests and see evidence of mighty holding up mighty, mighty holding up small, small holding up mighty. nature caring for nature.
i stood staring at the tree from the trail. i looked at david, also staring. we know that the physics of how this branch fell into these three points, how it distributed the weight, must play into why it was held there. but as i stood there i could only think about how that could work in the people-world.
points of contact. support. extending branches of encouragement, reassurance, compassion – these could make all the difference for others. how often i have seen a plato-esque meme on social media reminding us to be kind – for everyone we meet is fighting a battle we know nothing about.
big limbs holding tiny branches. tiny branches holding big limbs.
points of contact.
they will hold a fallen tree in the woods. they will hold you stable on a ladder. they will hold your heart steady.
and – in this forest of humankind – at any given moment, you might find you are one of someone else’s branches, the bridge between falling and held, the difference between holding on and letting go.
it was by itself. high on the wire that’s included in the squirrel highway system, it perched, alone.
mourning doves are usually together, in pairs. cooing in our backyard, pondside, they are cleaning up under the birdfeeder, welcoming the day or bringing an enchanting beginning to the evening. we have a particular fondness for them.
but it has been rare to see one by itself.
if i had to imagine what it was doing, i would say it was talking to the universe. way high like that, it would seem to be a little bit closer to infinity, to whatever it perceives as divine. it sat there, quiet.
i don’t require an intermediary either. my prayers are whispered on the trail, on the pillow, blowdrying my hair, chopping onions. in my own life, i have now found – after repeated learnings – that grace is all around and the divine is not in some building somewhere.
on the contrary, i wonder about those buildings now. for i, personally, have experienced the worst hypocrisy there – in communities that are waxing poetic in mission statements and disappearing in actually participating in those sentiments.
and so, i sit on the wire with the mourning dove. we both find this universe beautiful. we both find it challenging. we both lift longings up and we both ask for mercy in our living. we both live in the mystery and immensity of faith. i would imagine that sole bird does not wrestle with religious underpinnings, historical narrative stories or philosophical questions. that bird-on-the-wire is not concerned with the begats nor the maps of supposeds. i’m guessing we are kind of in alignment with the basic tenets – goodness, kindness, love, peace, generosity, fairness, grace. just like me, like, well, all of us, it has a direct-connect with its deity and the universe.
it is not likely – though i have learned never to say “never” – that i will ever be in a church again. i gave my entire heart to working at one at 19. they did not warn me of any danger, protect me or aid me. i gave my entire heart to working at one in latest life. they did not warn me of any danger, protect me or aid me.
i don’t blame god. for my god isn’t stuffed into nooks and crannies of the church. my god isn’t clinging to any specific denomination. and my god isn’t justifying any wrongful behavior because of some building.
to be in a sanctuary, one must feel in a place of refuge or safety. stone walls, brick, wooden altars, pews, organ pipes, artifacts, relics with touted significance – these are not naturally-occurring as safe or as refuge. the leadership and the community must bring that. and, in bookended experiences – on either end of my three-plus-decades of such work – though i brought every ounce of heart in, i walked out with my heart destroyed.
and so, the mourning dove and i sit on the high wire sanctuary together. we gaze at the sky and the divine tethers us in gently-held gossamer threads, tied to all the rest. i’m not sure what my dove friend is thinking, but i know that i am in prayer. that the universe yearns to hear each of us. that, even though i may feel alone on the wire, i am now more in the community of truth than in those fraught buildings.
i and the mourning dove are in the “church of nones” and the universe of all.
“the sun shines not on us but in us. the rivers flow not past, but through us. thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. the trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.” (john muir)
there have been moments – holy and glorious moments – when i remember that i am, yes, one with nature. i am no more or less a part of the whole than the heart-leaf on the side of the trail, no more or less a part of the whole than the rocks on the beach, no more or less a part of the whole than the cloud as it floats by. and i remember that in my tiny-ness – within the vastness – i could just as easily have been the energy of the leaf or the rock or the cloud.
“how will you spend your time?” asked the thru-hiker at the end of the trail. mary oliver asks the same, “what will you do with your one precious life?”
i realize – in these sacred and suspended moments when i can feel the threads of soul connect me to the trees, to the living plants, to the creatures – that i am, perhaps, spending too much time in worry.
we were laying on the sand on a couple of old beachtowels. the feels-like was 90 plus, but we were under some trees and what appeared to be the only spot of shade on the beach. the breeze was coming off the water and we could hear the waves breaking at the shore. seagulls, the laughter of children in the distance, boats and jetskis out on the aquamarine water, you could think it was a beach resort somewhere, perhaps an island.
with my head on my small backpack, i closed my eyes and appreciated the wind, my feet still cool from walking the water’s edge, waves breaking on our legs. above us, the sky was cerulean, gorgeous cumulus clouds floating by. we couldn’t believe our good fortune, this ideal spot on the beach.
it was down the beach from where the work was taking place. there were tugboats and bulldozers and barges and boulders and giant backhoes – all to shore up the shoreline, a project by the state of illinois. interesting to watch, we were far away so as not to be intrusive. we were surprised to see jetskis zipping in and around the actual workzone; we wondered aloud about their lack of regard for the workers and safety issues.
we lost track of time as we stared at the water, watched golden retrievers fetch balls in the waves, marveled again and again about the cool sandy haven we had found. hiking back out – it was only a mile or so down the trail – it was hot again, humidity clinging to the marshland as we walked through.
back home we agreed that it was the perfect way to spend the afternoon. a little bitta beach goes a long way settling down your mind. our spot, like a guided imagery meditation, the quiet and almost-solitude, the sun filtering through the trees, the clouds dancing across the sky-canvas, and waves lapping the sand. restorative, it brought us calm.
“my lighthouse, my lighthouse, shining in the darkness, i will follow you…
my lighthouse, my lighthouse, i will trust the promise, you will carry me safe to shore…”.*
the first person i think of when i see a lighthouse is crunch. we spent so much time together going from long island lighthouse to long island lighthouse, it’s an instant connect. i sent him this photo of the light on the kenosha channel leading into the harbor.
we are lucky to live close to this harbor area. any day we don’t feel like getting in littlebabyscion or big red to drive out to a trail we walk down along the lake. it’s beautiful. and never the same. the foghorn sounds through misty days and is like the sound of mourning doves – gentle, somewhat wistful, always welcome.
as much as i think about mountains, i have been – my whole life – a sea-level-girl. i’ve never lived far from water – big water. long island sound, the atlantic ocean, the gulf of mexico, lake michigan. i’d go walk the beach winter, spring, summer, fall. i’d take my red ball-and-chain round am/fm transistor radio and a beach towel and soak up summer sun. i’d go snorkeling or diving or boating or fishing. it used to be – and still is true – that big water (and small water) is healing for me. it gives me breath.
“in my wrestling and in my doubts in my failures you won’t walk out your great love will lead me through you are the peace in my troubled sea, oh oh you are the peace in my troubled sea
in the silence, you won’t let go in the questions, your truth will hold your great love will lead me through you are the peace in my troubled sea, oh oh you are the peace in my troubled sea“*
the lighthouse. it’s not hard to grasp the lyricist’s meaning. the divine – whatever or whoever that is for each of us – stays with us, holds us, holds on, lights the way. i suppose i should delve further into this songwriter’s political leanings and social consciousness, for i have found that many of the artists in this genre are hypocritically biased and sway away from equality, instead, lurking in the fringes of extremism. but for right now, i just want to remain – momentarily – a little bit uninformed. for this moment, i want to linger in some beautiful lyrics, a powerful song that my ukulele band sang many, many times.
the lighthouse of the harbor here is red. fire island lighthouse is black and white. montauk point lighthouse is white with a brick red stripe.
with those, time spent adrift at sea is lit, protection is concentrated candlepower.
our own personal lighthouses – those wise ones around us, our god, our universe-mother-earth – they light the way. countless times i have felt the strong arms of someone carrying me to shore, helping me breathe in the midst of the storm, holding steady in the turmoil.
“light their way when the darkness surrounds them. give them love, let it shine all around them.” (richard carpenter) lighthouses. even on the top of a mountain, even in the desert, even in the amber waves.
“life is slippery. here, take my hand.”(h. jackson browne, jr., author)
the h. jackson browne, jr. card is in my studio. it reminds me that lighthouses aren’t the only lighthouses.
“fire before us, you’re the brightest; you will lead us through the storms…” (*rend collective)
it’s been a minute since i’ve sung into a microphone. for that matter, i haven’t spoken into a microphone in a while either. i haven’t run cables or tested monitors, used earpieces or balanced sound in a space. i haven’t hung condenser mics over my piano or booms in front of the keyboard. no neumanns or shures, no audix.
it’s not like you forget, though.
we walked past the meadow off-trail and nature had clearly sent in her sound engineer. the meadow hawkweed microphones stood ready and able to amplify all the ambient sounds of the woods. it made me giggle a little thinking about these tiny microphone-like clusters soaking up all the noises around them, running them through some sort of nature-equalizer and tossing them back out through an invisible speaker system.
in every good venue sound system, decisions are made for each and every performance. tiny – sometimes barely perceptible – turns of the dials, slides of the sliders, mutes and unmutes all define what the listener will hear. in the best scenario, the listener hears sound as it really is, nothing distorted. in the best scenario, sound is pure, unadulterated, unfiltered, offered as true, crisp, present, full-frequency-range. the piano sounds luxurious; the voice rides above it. exquisite.
how would nature balance it all – the call of birds, the busy peeper-frogs, the wind in the high leaves of the forest, the wings of butterflies, the tease of chipmunks and squirrels in the underbrush, the crunch of human footfall, conversation, hushed tones of worry, laughter, breath. would nature pare down all tones of negativity, choosing instead to pan to the positive? or would nature allow for all of it – a cacophony of life as it exists in the moment?
the draw of the microphone is powerful. i wonder if the butterflies nearby felt it too.
reverse threading 