i am writing this on the next day. the day after spring. it is now winter again. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter these days. i’m wondering if that is a product of age and stage, as 20 says.
mostly, it convinces us that we need to have a sense of humor. about all things. even the weather.
we sit writing this – snow outside – windows closed – heat on (though not much because i am a curmudgeon about the heat). yesterday we sat writing – birds and sunshine outside – windows open – heat off. it is off again, on again. the tease of time.
tomorrow it is march. and suddenly, i am in the month of my 65th birthday. i am in the month of medicare. i am in the month of the supplement vs the advantage plan. i am in the month of part d. i am in the month of whoa!!
and i wonder – where did the time go? wasn’t it spring yesterday? wasn’t it summer and delicious fall? how is it that i glance in the mirror and an almost-65 stares back?
it truly is the tease of time. the seasons are getting shorter and shorter. and – more and more – my investment in them is getting bigger and bigger – each individual day in each individual week in each individual month in each individual year.
the next day is all well and good. but it’s today that matters right now.
i know this frame well. i have looked out – at the rest – through this tree’s strong curved limbs for thirty-five years now.
because i am watching this beloved and known tree age and weaken a bit, i suppose the city may someday choose to take it down. and that day – well, i will likely weep. i try to remember to thank the tree often now, in case it happens that we come home one day – after errands or a hike or a trip – and the trucks will have already come and gone. and the front elevation of our home will never look the same again. in the meanwhile, i take photographs of it – in the sun, in the snow, in ice, in early bud, in leaf, in the rich colors of fall, and in deep fog.
the fog had rolled in this night. we live close to the lake and this winter has brought more fog than snow, more mist than ice. i grab my phone and snap a few pictures of this shape i know so well.
in our living room is a piece of this tree. still. after the whole water-main-front-yard thing of 2021 we dragged a giant branch in to use as our christmas tree. wrapped in lights, it warms the space. we’ve never taken it down. i suppose it will stay there a while longer. likely a long while.
foresty forest lives a van life based in canada. he also travels throughout the western united states, hiking with his insanely capable jack russell terrier rocko. he was in british columbia – way out there – and his drone revealed acres and acres of downed tree limbs. though it looked like giant avalanches had come through, it was actually the end result of big logging. i stared at the screen, feeling the tug of the trees. there is somehow a balance, i guess, of trees we need and trees we leave standing. and so we choose reforestation for a memorial gift; we honor the absolute and pressing need to replant.
it’s all a matter of balance. it’s a matter of knowledge and responsibility, of paying it forward or paying it back to this good earth that has provided for us.
if the city takes down this tree that has literally framed my life for over three decades they will offer an opportunity to plant another. we will choose carefully, knowing that it will likely outlive us, knowing i would like for whatever tree stands in that very spot to be as impactful for the next and the next as ours has been for me, for us.
the fog envelops the tree and i photograph its shape. it’s not perfect anymore, but it has stood the test of time and it has rich history. there are limbs that have fallen from wind and ice, limbs that have been knocked down by large equipment, limbs that have rotted out.
but it is truly beautiful. and it stands proud, knowing.
it doesn’t take much to get my attention. the drops of water. the juxtaposition of muted color. the use of the add-9 in a 1-3-5 chord. the tension that is created between that ninth and the tonic of the triad, begging for release, suspended to evoke emotion.
if we all spent time in the beautiful details of things, perhaps there would be little time for disagreement, little time for division, little time to perpetuate negativity. i suppose this all sounds a bit idealistic, maybe even pollyanna-ish.
when i was in high school, one of my best friends – marc – used to poke fun at me. he’d point out that i was all about sunrises, rainbows, bubbles. we’d argue the merits of musicians – me defending john denver, him defending bob dylan. i was an innocent back then, living in a family that was almost all a “generation” older, comparatively speaking. while other families were watching the wonderful world of disney and episodes of dark shadows, mine was watching doris day, rock hudson, debbie reynolds movies and episodes of gidget and hogan’s heroes and petticoat junction. my parents weren’t in front of the tv when saturdaynight live started in 1975 and the radio in the kitchen played wgsm from huntington, which didn’t include led zeppelin or aerosmith in their line-up. the record player in the living room spun robert goulet and jim nabors, herb alpert and the tijuana brass. my sweet momma did not dance to janis ian or carole king or joni mitchell or aretha franklin. my dad whistled all the time, but never a john lennon song or billy joel or david bowie. i wasn’t so much pop-culture-up-to-date-informed.
innocence has a way of exiting the building and sometimes this is by more profound circumstances than others. i’m in that second category.
but i still look back – to before – and think about the sunrises, rainbows and bubbles of that period of my life. sometimes somewhat wistfully.
and as i pass the mauve and olive leaves on the trail, noticing the tiny droplets of dew or the morning rain – still visible, i realize that somewhere in there, the unwavering john denver fan, the jonathan livingston seagull fan, the doris-day-rock-hudson-debbie-reynolds fan still exists. i can see her waving from other there. she stops me on the trail and reminds me. of goodness and beauty. and of sunrises, rainbows and bubbles.
the ornamental grasses weren’t there – out the window – when the studio was the nursery. instead, there were hedges – ancient hedges lining the front of the house, thick hedges lining the driveway, dense hedges in front of the old brick wall. it looked completely different all hedged in.
i’d sit in the rocking chair in the nursery with my babies and watch the seasons go by out the window. rocking them to sleep, reading a book, nursing, we spent many, many hours in that rocking chair. and i spent many hours with sleeping infants in my arms gazing out the window, pondering the season out there and the season inside. somewhere there is a recording of my song rocking chair seasons, but i’m not sure where.
it is evident from the grasses what season we are in. looking out any front window – or back, for that matter – there are grasses answering to the dance of the calendar. they sprout out of the ground in later spring and then rise skyward. stunning in the breeze, they are tall and willowy in hot summer sun. and then, the plumes. gorgeous and feathery. and now, the grasses are golden orange, a showy nod to the cool of autumn. even later they will stand in the snow, catching the winter winds. all just out the window. a timeline of life.
the rocking chair is now downstairs in the basement – one of two in david’s studio. the crib and the changing table and all the babystuff is no longer in my studio, though just outside the door hang tiny shoes on a doorknob which were my girl’s and my boy’s when they were little.
sometimes i stand by the window in the studio – at the same angle that the rocking chair sat – and look out. it is easy to get lost in the memories that flood in.
the seasons have changed. they are all-grown-up and living creative and independent lives, strong humans in this world.
i’m still right here – and always will be for them, waving my plume in the air, rooting for them at every turn, in every season.
and i look at the grasses in their perennial transition as time passes and realize it is all the same.
my sweet poppo died three years before my sweet momma. when she died, the tilt that my world had already felt dove down into a deeper angle, the axis of the earth struggling to keep it in balance. the loss of both parents is profound, no matter your age.
it had been years since i had heard or seen a blue jay. they were common where i grew up, the screeches of jays in the woods or the trees surrounding our home. they have husky voices, always a little bit raspy. but they make me think of home.
i still remember the first day i saw one – after. it’s a few years ago now.
we were hiking on one of our favorite trails and suddenly i could hear them. they flew across the path and i stood still, reveling in the moment, taking it in. since that day, there have been more sightings and i have heard their birdcalls, even out our bedroom window from time to time.
since they are a common bird in wisconsin, i wonder how it is i missed them.
and i realize that sometimes the way home – the sound of a blue jay – is something we just don’t pay attention to, something that falls down on the list of priorities. until one day.
the day comes that all the really important stuff comes into focus. and we realize that we have – maybe – taken for granted the stuff that really is a part of who we are. we slough off paying attention to those things, those places, those people because we believe that there is plenty of time – later. or perhaps there are reasons we cannot grant grace to those things, those places, those people and we somewhat haughtily, in some selfish kind of righteous amnesia of our own actions, put them to the side, the corners of our hearts. or maybe we are just too busy and we have gotten lost, overwhelmed in our very real and partly contrived busy-ness.
any way you look at it, i am surprised i didn’t see the blue jays. until after.
now i hear them, see them, find their feathers in the usualness of our days. each time it is like a tiny nod to home, to all the moments of goodness, to the realness of unconditional love in the midst of the ridiculous hardness of life.
we could feel it in the air the other morning. stunningly sunny, a cool air wrapped itself around me as i stepped out onto the deck to watch dogga greet his day. the coffee was brewing and the ‘hood was quiet.
and suddenly, it was obvious.
summer is coming to a close.
and we grasp onto those last days. we are in wonder about how it is possible that the summer has gone by. we stare ahead – into the galaxy of sky – pondering what is to come.
and we do the one sure thing.
we keep holding onto each other – hand in hand – all of us – in the racing flight of time.
and there is nothing about sunflowers most people don’t love. a brilliant statement, profound color, turned to the sun, following the sun, seeking to be nourished, supersized flowers that are hard to miss.
they stood proudly in a tall vase on our dining room table for a week – cheering us on, a direct line to the sun’s energy, the love of the universe. they didn’t try hard – they were divine without trying.
and then, just as remarkable as in their standing, their reaching up-up, they began to bow. deep curves of thick stems turning down, toward the tabletop, the disk florets invisible, the yellow-orange ray flowers starting to brown and curl, green phyllaries twisting and lifting away from the back of the disks. a graceful bow, with no effort to resist succumbing to this bending down.
there are most definitely times that we would be served well to stop standing, to stop reaching, and instead to bow down, to lower our constantly-looking-forward gaze and, instead, to rest in a moment of humility, a moment of be-here-now, a moment of gratitude.
maybe this is what makes sunflowers so mighty. they instinctively know that there will be balance. they know that they will not always be tall and upright, gorgeous and fresh, colorful and crisp. they know that they will someday be arched over, wrinkly, no longer striving to be lofty. that they will arc on their strong stalk and they will humbly move into next. they know this wilting is no less important than blooming, for it is in wilting that seeds are released and a new lifecycle is possible. they know both are ever-relevant.
right now we are standing in vases, our faces to the sun. we are soaking up whatever energy we can grasp. we are aware that time flies by on the whisper of the jet stream, on the spinning-spinning of the earth’s axis.
soon, we begin to bow, ever so slightly. we lean a bit on the next big blossom of disks and ray-petals. we wrinkle and wobble in place, lowering our gaze to take in those around us. and then, after much time has passed in the sun, we bow in appreciation. there will be many more.
and we know we have made a mark in our blooming and in our wilting. for we, too, are mighty sunflowers.
the time for our peonies has passed. they have been momentary, ephemeral. yet, even in their briefest of moments, their impact has been profound. their sweet fragrance wafted through the backyard, their stunning pink punctuated the green of the garden, their blossoms – from bud to full bloom – have been enchanting. and now, the green remains. i understand the plant is in full working mode – storing up energy for the next season of blooms. i already can’t wait to see them.
we planted a small herb garden on our potting stand this past weekend. basil, rosemary, mint, parsley. we added one dwarf indeterminate cherry tomato plant. and we placed a potted citronella on the deck. there is something infinitely satisfying about going outside with kitchen scissors to snip off the herb i need for a recipe. caprese salads or skewers, mint tea, parsley because heidi’s mom said everything is lifted with a little parsley, and rosemary – it reminds me of the brunch we had one day a couple years ago on the porch of the gingerbread house bistro up west of milwaukee. we split a steak seasoned with rosemary – i can still taste this delight. i’ll be using the rosemary today with roasted baby potatoes. all from steps away, an extension off our patio.
i wrote the album this part of the journey in 1997. piano-based instrumentals, a few of the pieces on that album had their moment on adult contemporary radio. and then, like all good peonies, they faded a bit, stoking up energy in the plant for next. but as i pull up the album and listen – last i saw you, the way home, good moments – i can still hear the pink, can still feel the peaceful wafting, can grasp its relevance. i still hear about this album from people out-there listening. it’s steps away from now, but it’s on an extension of the patio of my discography.
instrumental music – like peonies – has no half-life. both evoke emotional reactions – visceral reactions – both are steadfast in their passive zeal to just be. both wrap one in the right now. both go on.
i suppose, in a rare moment, i might one day put this album – or as it is – or any of my instrumental albums – on the cd player. i might sit down in an adirondack chair next to the peony within the concentric scent-circle of mint and basil, and simply listen.
i might be reminded of the moments in composition, the moments in practice, the moments in recording, the moments in concert.
and i might be able to see the peonies that will surely arrive next season.
breck is leafing out now. tender chartreuse mini-leaves populate its small branches. we are not quite at put-away-the-winter-coat but we are definitely at hope-springs-eternal. leaves! surprise! spring. already! but it’s just an aspen. and it’s just budding.
no, there is no “just”.
i suppose surprise is exactly that – surprise. it is that which we are pleasantly startled by – like fragile leaves – or that which we are astonished by – or astounded by – or by which we are stunned into silence. the things we would not expect of nature, of others, of ourselves, of a community, of life itself – these things surprise us. and in the winter of surprise, the winter of fallout – no matter how long the season lasts for us – we find ourselves underground, sending out roots, trying to stabilize, to process, to center ourselves, to recuperate.
there are those who peripherally try to help. they try to encourage moving on, letting go. their words are often statements that start with “it’s just…”. it is hard to listen to another person when their first words minimize that which you are going through. i remind myself not to use this word – “just”. it’s like the word “fine” for me. neither here nor there, “fine” sits somewhere in the middle of the emotional spectrum, not committing to either side. “just” sits in alphabetical order to the right of “fine”and the left of “let go” and “move on”.
we brought breck home from the high mountains, a sapling, a tiny piece of that which we dearly love. the aspens quake up there – the slightest of breezes brings their song. it was 2017 and, in the way of not-knowing, we didn’t know what the future would hold for us or for breck or for the world. time has now gone by – six years of time – and we look back, both in awe and shuddering. it has not been “just” six years.
it’s been Six Years. and there is not likely one of us who – without pause – can say it “just” went by.
“accept. adjust. arise,” she said.
breck has withstood it all, accepting its new home, the new everyday details of its life. transplanting, drought, heavy rain, sleet, snow, freezing temperatures, heat indexes over 100. it has adjusted and adjusted. so have we.
now, breck’s buds have turned to chartreuse. not “just” green. instead, a brilliant shade of living. it’s rising-rising-rising.
in the late afternoon, the sun streams in the west windows and lights up the sitting room. it is the coziest of cozy rooms with the comfiest old slipcovered couch, smushy fur throw pillows, sherpa blanket. good lamps, happy lights and no television make it the perfect place to share time with a book. we love sitting there.
the sitting room had history as a cozy room. many years ago it was the only room in the house with a tv. when my children were little-little they watched mr. rogers and thomas-the-tank-engine and sesame street in there. my son lined up matchbox cars on the rug and my daughter sang and danced with barney and the gang. the little mermaid and the lion king and sing-along songs were on regular line-up. a small room, it was a hub of activity for small babies and toddlers. we danced for hours to the grapevine song and woke up the household on saturday mornings to brother band’s bagpipes.
the giant tv went to the curb and someone picked it up with a wagon and toted it away. the camelback rolled-arm loveseat, much worse for wear, took its own turn at the curb and the old couch from the living room donned a slipcover and – with great effort by my son and me – made its way into the cattycorner.
then, there was a period of time it was a little bit ignored. more of a pass-through than a room, it begged attention, some of our time.
and now, the rickety old farm table is next to the couch and holds an antique clock that magically stopped at 11:11, some dried flowers and charlie – the heart-shaped philodendron who clearly loves being the star of the room. beautiful paintings and an old screen door. and the sunlight greets us every afternoon and each time we walk from the hall into the bedroom or vice-versa.
it is easy to sink down into the couch and close one’s eyes. we know this from experience. it’s a really good nap couch. i wonder how it would have been for two toddlers on the move. i suspect it would have been a good addition back then. funny how cozy takes over somewhere along the way.
loveseats are good – and quite lovely. but couches – the kind you can sink down into – read a book together on opposite ends leaning back on fuzzy overstuffs, under a blanket – are better. looking back i can see that now. smushy > camelback. this would have been a better couch back then. hindsight. sigh.
lounging on the sofa the other day i closed my eyes, but not in sleep. for a moment, i could hear the tiny voices of my children – decades ago – as they played on the rug and sang along, “it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”, “under the sea”, “i love you. you love me”, “colors of the wind”. wistful moments. time flies by. our home holds us, ever-watchful.
i looked at the changes of the sitting room. a serene spot in the house, a place to think back and re-relish earlier times. times of barbies and baby dolls, stacks of books, matchbox cars and balls of every sport. growing children, dogs, a cat. it was a hub back then. it’s a different kind of hub now. and i’m eternally grateful for both.
reverse threading 