“the white trout lily humbly bows on the forest floor. much like people, though on a different scale, their presence is ephemeral, fleeting. on sunny days, their petals will curl back, up, towards the sun; on shady days these small flowers may not even open. their simple beauty a mystery to the passerby, their faces shyly downward, they fill the underbrush on the side of the trail, dotting the landscape with fragile white blooms. i trust they are not concerned with the impact they make on the world nor do they wonder about their footprints once they are gone. they are simply there – love – dressed in white floral.” (from a post on august 26, 2021)
the tiny trout lily forest – as seen from the ground – stretching on and on, dotting through dry underbrush, the accumulation of fall and winter now giving it up to spring.
the day was stunning…warm, sunny, blue skies. a gift of a day, indeed. it was our first time back on our loop since we arrived home. it was time to process it all and that trail is one of our touchstones for processing. we wandered along the dirt path, talking, being silent, noting how this new season was transforming our woods.
when you travel to or through places where you are not known – where you are a stranger – there is a sense of humility. we immerse in little towns on back roads when we can, finding our way through someone else’s place, through a community of ‘others’ – those in the know about local customs, local gems, local folklore. we are just passersby – soon to be on our way somewhere else.
but we have discovered some of our favorite spots this way. we’ve found places to which we must return some day, places with which we have connected, places that seem magically aligned with us.
discovery is like that. our steps take us past the familiar, into the unknown, the mysterious.
as i got down on my knees to photograph the trout lily forest, i imagined being tiny and walking amongst the lilies. like walking in a city of towering buildings, anonymous to most.
this trail – so familiar – each twist and turn, the spots where we know there will be standing water, the spots where the sun bathes the path, the places where the scent of pine is strong. we are lucky to know this place.
it is not likely that hikers after us will wonder about our footprints. they will be intent on the awakening forest and the swollen river, on their own silence, on their own talk–talk.
but we were there.
and – again – i realize we are each just one of the trout lilies in the woods, just as fragile, just as ephemeral, bowing to time.
the woods are different out east. the rhododendron is en masse and the scratchy underbrush is minimal, so you can walk in the trees, weaving your way in and out of the stands of these tall towers.
we had a bit of time before the sun set to walk on this special retreat land, stretch our legs from roadtripping, sit on the balcony with a charcuterie we had prepared ahead of our drive, watch the sun go down.
it was peaceful and – truly – just what we needed. the wind sailing through the pine trees near us was soothing, the scent of spring in the allegheny-appalachian mountains would bring us down from the drone of the interstate. it was the perfect stopping ground.
our accommodations were simple and inexpensive – a small studio above a garage – but with a kitchen so we could warm up the dinner we brought with us and make breakfast in the morning. we were thrilled to have such a serene setting as we knew the next day would bring the hectic chaos of the city, the bridges and the cross-bronx-cross-island craziness.
early the next morning with our coffee we strategized about how calmly we would approach the traffic of the day. we took back roads to the interstate, learning a bit of how rural-mountain folks are living, wondering where the grocery store was, wondering what the roads are like in the dead of winter.
we hadn’t gone too far that morning when on the side of the road were two wild turkeys. just as we approached one turkey decided to take off and fly right in front of big red. i slammed on the brakes, determined not to hit this very-slow-to-get-momentum-flying creature right in front of my windshield, like a lumbering skyvan. thankfully, the turkey made it to the other side of the road safely and we continued on. i felt a bit shaken. but d looked up the significance of this large grounded creature – particularly when one flies right in front of your vehicle. a reminder of abundance, of courage, of tenacity, of openness and readiness – all these attributes of new beginnings and changes were positive trade-offs for the frightening close-up of a turkey in flight. we chose to adopt these meanings and i quietly thanked the turkey for the good omens.
we left behind the forests, sandstone outcroppings, striated vertical walls, and the mountains, trading it for the shore, forsythia, stands of woods, sand and bluffs. and though we didn’t wake up the next day in a sanctuary forest, we sipped our coffee watching the harbor, its water still, perfectly reflecting sailboats and skiffs moored, buoys out past the dock.
a different kind of peace, i felt like i had come home.
littlebabyscion stayed home. good thing. we would have been dwarfed in the middle of all the trucks on the highway going into the city. at least big red had a bit more presence than LBS would have had. even so, it was like being in a cave – we couldn’t see anything else but the trucks. no view, no signs, nothing. just trucks.
it was a breath of fresh air when we got to the george washington bridge and the trucks veered left to traverse the bridge on the upper level. suddenly we could see the water. suddenly we could see signs. we could see the skyline of the city. we had perspective of where we actually were, instead of just inching along in a cluster – no real choice but to move ever-so-slightly in this cotillion of semis – with zero idea of our exact location.
this country feels that way right now. we are surrounded by corruption to the nth degree and it is insanely hard to try and stop hyperventilating and get any kind of perspective – we are seemingly inching along in a clusterf— of lawlessness, all pretense of the constitution removed, the horror of being controlless, with only the worst of the worst locating us.
there were moments when it was hard to breathe in the middle of all these trucks. i kept wishing there was another way off the island, but every artery has its issues and there are snagging problems getting off every way you go.
so we endured. and we went ridiculously slow; it took three and a half hours to get off the island and across the city. but we got there.
and so, i suppose that there is a lesson here. it’s not like we pulled over and gave up. we set the nose of big red to get there – west on the island, across the east river, across the hudson river and beyond. and, despite it taking longer than we ever anticipated, we got there.
i hope the same premise somehow applies to this redwood-forest-new-york-island country.
“the smallest act of kindness is worth more than the greatest intention.” (khalil gibran)
it had been a long day. a very long day that was preceded by other very long days. we were tired and road-weary. the last couple hours were brutal. at one point i just wanted to stop in the middle of a dark intersection and weep. we kept on.
when we finally got there – after driving through corn-edged roads with slices of moonlight shining on the asphalt – i pulled the truck onto the gravel drive and – without any finessing to my parking – just stopped, more than ready to get out.
we opened the tiny cottage door, taking a breath, knowing that – sometimes – a place to land is merely that and nothing more – just a place to land.
in the moment of stepping over the threshold, it was instantaneous. the little cottage reached out and held us as we entered, its every detail thoughtful and comforting.
we wandered room to room – the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom. everything was impeccable. we were struck by the abundance offered in this place, instead of the sometimes helter-skelter just-enough conglomeration of furnishings, decor, necessities.
we stood in the bathroom by the cabinet, literally stunned by the stacks of thick, fluffy towels on its shelves. we had just come from a rented place where the towels were thin, musty, ragtag – the sort of towels we have downstairs in our laundry room for cleanup duties not guests.
we had a small dinner – on plates and glasses that neatly filled the kitchen cupboards, at a table with flowers and napkins, adjacent to a counter with a basket full of snacks.
but it was when we got ready for bed that really got to me, that helped me exhale my held breath and granted me a new, big, deep breath.
there on a giant scrumptious bed – with a thick comforter and quilt and multiple pillows – were two andes candies.
the tiniest sweet gesture.
yes, we paid to stay at this beautiful cottage that perched on a hillside above the river boasting plentiful water fowl and eagles. but we’ve also paid to stay at many, many other places. truth be told, we usually like them all, finding charm in the location, the aged history, the quirk. even when there’s only one spoon or one glass, a hodgepodge of plastic plates, not enough lights.
but when you are as embraced by a place as we were that night, you are reminded that going the extra mile is worth it. that any hospitality we might offer others – whether as a generosity or paid – whether near or far – whether beloved or stranger – should be considered, heartfelt, gracious, unsparing.
even the tiniest of gestures. like a couple andes candies.
because many people these days – in places all over the world – feel like weeping in the middle of a dark intersection.
the rest of the subway car stared at us. we kept talking anyway.
back in the earlier days of my recording and performing – when a dear girlfriend and i used to travel together – we found ourselves all over the country, laughing. our escapades were hilarious – at least to us – and we readily shared our time on public transport with anyone nearby. we’d chat with the other people grasping onto the silver subway rings over the seats. we’d chat with the seat mate on the plane, once all holding hands together as the plane hit severe turbulence and – incredulously – even the flight attendants were weeping. we’d talk in the taxi, in the terminal, in the restroom. we seemed to be entirely capable of writing what-seemed a seinfeld episode everywhere we went. we were thoroughly entertained by – us – and it made all the travails of travel into adventure.
i’m a new yorker – a long islander – so talking – tawwwking – is not necessarily a problem for me. now i am a recovering interrupter (which i came by honestly) but back then…interrupting each other was part of the gig and it made us laugh even harder.
we’d step onto the subway – having gone through the turnstile with great aplomb or – more often – like something out of a cartoon – and immediately say “hi!” to whomever we encountered. sometimes people would answer as these were the very earliest days of cellphones so people were not staring into the palm of their hands. sometimes people would strike up a conversation – “you’re in town visiting, eh?” sometimes people would just stare. literally stare.
i carry these episodes with me even now. it is impossible for me to be on an elevator without saying anything; i simply cannot participate in the stare-at-the-slit-in-the-center-of-the-doors. or the up-stare at the numbers of the floor changing. “hi” just doesn’t seem to be a really challenging or aggressive kind of greeting. it just acknowledges that someone else – a person – is there. with you in the same space.
though i would not encourage the spray-painting of these boulders along the lakefront, the simple “hi” – in the middle of everything we are all reeling in, in the middle of this country – made me smile. an acknowledgment of someone else’s existence.
none of us are alone here. we’re in this together. we all count.
he says that one day we must go on a trip that is specifically about photography. that we will slowwwwly stroll – wherever it is we are – and i can stop and linger – at any time – and take a picture – or twenty – of any single thing along the way. i am excited about that and we have a really, really long list of the places we might choose as destinations. an endless list, actually.
the funny thing is – this is pretty much how i do every day. on the trail, in our backyard, at the garden center, at our potting stand, in the antique shoppe, at the grocery store, in our ‘hood, in the mountains, on the beach – anywhere.
i have always loved taking photographs. even a dear old friend, who i hadn’t spoken with in about four decades, remembered that i always had a camera in my hand whenever she and i were together. it goes way back…for me, to those pocket instamatic cameras and the cameras with the square bulbs on the top that rotated for the next shot. in college i did photo shoots with my new 35mm manual camera for extra money. i climbed fences to take sunrise shots on beaches. i hiked in rivers to capture the fauna along the edges. i adored being the photography editor of my college paper, toting my camera to disco parties, softball games, campus events, college-sponsored ski trips, lunch with paul simon. if there were no pictures of something or someone from back then, there were good reasons.
there have also been times – along the way – when i have realized that taking photographs would take away from the moment – and, in those times, i have chosen to put the camera away – to simply memorize the moment instead. but this thready heart of mine loves to scroll back through images that place life and time.
it feels somewhat like cheating when you take photographs at a nursery such as i did for today’s image. i wandered about the aisles and aisles, greenhouses and gardens of nearby milaegers, entranced by the vast opportunity to capture color, texture, utter beauty. there is no end to it. even the flowers that are wilting are absolutely divine. i walk, arm in arm with david, and i feel fortunate to see so much that touches so many senses. it is impossible to not feel it. we are surrounded by the glorious.
and so we plan – one day – to take a trip sheerly about photography. i will be excited to plan it, to choose idyllic places and vistas that offer moments like the shimmer of sun on iridescent raindrops.
in the meanwhile, i will carry my iphone and its remarkable camera everywhere i go, capturing everything else that is beautiful, that is evocative, that means something, that will be a source of joy or heart or memory, that is life.
we were exhausted after we arrived home. chicago is a lot of stimulus all at once. we had taken the train down to avoid commuter hours on the highway; we took our dear friend to a pre-op appointment.
zooming down and taxiing over to the medical center, taxiing back and zooming back up wasn’t hard. but you can definitely feel the frenetic energy in the city – an energy that is pulsing and alive. as the taxi driver chose the underground roads i marveled at the intensity of traffic – everywhere.
even before our son settled in the city, we made a point to get down there. but we do know there are people who choose to stay away, who don’t necessarily find joy in the pace or textures of a big city. we personally cannot imagine not taking the opportunity to immerse in something different, some place that is different. i don’t see us living in a big city at this point in our lives, but we’re grateful to have cities close by to remind us of the beautiful diversity of people.
there was a volunteer at the entrance to the surgeon’s suite. she was helpful in directing traffic as people arrived. she seemed a bit rote, though welcoming, not warm. until someone sat near and started having a conversation with her – about flowers. she came alive and spirited and it was a reminder of how easy it is for us to close off from others – other people, other customs, other lives, other places. until.
when we had walked in, she asked if we had an appointment. our friend said he did and she turned to look at the two of us – to which i stated, “fan club”.
“everyone needs support,” she replied.
it does one good to leave. staying put makes you complacent. staying put makes everything that is normal just ordinary. it doesn’t give you any sense of awe about how others live, any in-another’s-shoes insight into the complications and complexities of day-to-day life. it doesn’t help you remember – or even try to imagine – the entire population of this nation – how vast, how freckled with differences, the gift of ‘other’.
we sat by the window and gazed outside from our vantage point on the 15th floor. traffic below, the sounds of the city, a building directly opposite us. i imagined the life going on in that building, yet another medical complex. i watched the newcomers as they arrived, brows furrowed with worry or weariness. i imagined the lives of people i would never see again. i watched the suite-greeter, multiplying that one lovely person who i did not know by the 2.7 million others in the city.
and i knew that soon we would board a train and head back up to wisconsin. we’d sit in the kitchen on a cold, rainy late afternoon. we’d eat leftovers. we’d talk about conversations with our taxi drivers and the smooth travel experience of the day. we’d be both grateful for even the briefest of times in the city and grateful for the quiet of our old house. we’d pet on dogga and go to bed early.
and we would be better for it. because we would remember that we are not alone in this world. we are connected to others in the same quest for breathing and thriving. we are enriched, choosing to – even briefly – go somewhere unknown, do something we have to figure out, learn something new, take in the energy of so many, many people – living.
“life is not a spectator sport.” (attributed to jackie robinson)
the catalogs in the old mailbox in our bathroom are well-worn. i don’t keep every catalog that comes into the house, but there are a few that make their way into the old mailbox that used to grace the front of our house for years. stio is one of them.
i page through – dreaming of the places in this catalog. the phrases they use resonate with me.
“don’t just go somewhere, be somewhere.”
that – ^ – those very words are the reason i don’t take travel tours. you might question my position – it might be that you very much value group tours – buses or boats or what-have-you. and that is most definitely a way to see places.
but we have found that – for us – it is more important to immerse in a place than to pass through and check it off on some bucket list. if we merely pass through, we feel we have missed the real essence of the place. if we merely pass through, we have missed the scent of dawn, the color of dusk, the tempo of the streets and sounds of the overnight. we have missed the accents, the colloquialisms, the marketplace, the joy of sitting for long hours watching people interact – in a new place. we have missed the opportunity of absorbing something – some tiny little thing even – from the new, strange land that we might take back with us. we have missed connecting with its people. we have missed the beating heart.
and so, i agree with stio: don’t just go somewhere, be somewhere.
we try to take the time to be engaged, somewhat engrossed in places we go. true, it isn’t always possible, but we do make every attempt. it is what drives decisions about travel. our checklist is not just that – a checklist. it is the chance to viscerally see, taste, smell, hear, touch another place on this good earth, a chance to really feel it.
it is the reason why – for the four days we were in paris – that we walked everywhere, miles and miles all over the city. it is the reason we found our way to the market, skipping the fancy restaurants we passed on the way. it is the reason we bought baguettes and cheese, tiny salads, bottles of wine, fruit tarts from a patisserie. it is the reason we sat on cathedral steps or on benches by fountains in parks to dine. it is the reason my feet hurt and my heart was full.
it’s why we return time and again to breckenridge – to hike its trails, wander its streets, hang out and talk to the shopkeepers and the bartenders, shop its grocery store.
it’s why – once we have found a place and accommodations that truly speak to us, we will return again – to be a part of the community, to walk its sidewalks, shop its merchants, talk with its people, live – even for the tiniest bit of time – in its midst.
when we think of all the places we have traveled together, we recollect images that are multi-dimensional. we remember how it felt. we may not get everywhere we would like to go – and our checklist may be left with boxes to check – but we will have spent time in places we got to know and that got to know us, at least a little bit.
it is the reason why – in addition to seeking new – we choose to return – time and again – to the same trails we know. they have become part of us and we a part of them, a connection that makes us feel a certain awed responsibility toward their continued existence.
it is in the way that the mountains take my breath away – and make me weep – upon first sight, in the way that the ocean’s tide beckons me and pulls at my toes, in the way red rock makes me reach to run my hand along its sandstone shell.
it is this way i wish to see new places – with enough breath to be enthralled, enough freedom to sit quietly or run free, enough time there to walk and walk, to linger, and enough joie de vivre to forgo getting as many checkmarks in the “done” column as possible and instead embrace the getting-to-know-you – the savoring – of places in our world.
it is a tough time to travel. at least for me. i feel – well – safer at home these days. tucked into our sweet old house doing our thing.
but we had an opportunity to visit old friends, see new things, experience a different landscape. and we were fortunate enough to be able to take it.
this place we have traveled to – beautiful. another part of this stunning sea to shining sea. we move about airports with thousands of people – all different – with languages and accents and clothing choices and faces all swimming around us. such diversity. we can feel the riches of this melting pot.
and we miss home. where our dogga waits for us and 20 has dinner hot. where our studios and our pillows are. where no make-up and sweats are a default. where we sous-chef and cook side by side in our old kitchen, nourishing not just our bodies but our souls as well.
it doesn’t take new eyes to see it all. but the gentle reminder is always a good thing.
to go and come back.
nothing like it.
“the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” (marcel proust)
when you drive almost 1900 miles around the southwest – on backroads, highways, interstates – you get to see some real life.
we drove from nevada to utah to arizona and back to nevada- a big loop. there was so much to see – even just out the window of the suburban stuffed with six people and six suitcases, six carry-on backpacks or tote bags, six water bottle koozies and lots of snacks. there were many lessons along the way as we drove through small towns, farms, ranchland, desert, canyonlands.
there were people. people living in these small towns, on these farms, on this ranchland, in the desert, homesteading by the canyonlands. real live people, an exclamation point of diversity.
i had the good fortune of meeting the woman who opened her home to us – through airbnb – a half hour or so south of the grand canyon. hers was not a five-star hotel. hers was not a resort-amenity-rich spa. hers was not a photo-shoot instagram-worthy house of smart finishes and interior design. hers was a home – her beloved home to which she was soon going to return to live.
you knew as you drove down the gravel road – past the mobile homes and modular houses. you knew as you pulled into her dirt driveway and pulled up to the porch, a little worse for wear. you knew as you drove in and the outbuildings scattered within the split-rail fencing were numerous. you knew as you walked in – the laundry room off the porch door – and the floor was worn. you knew as you strolled about in her home, filled with antiques, charming tchotchkes and quirky notes everywhere that explained how things worked or invited you in to her life.
she pointed at one of the outbuildings and told me that was to become her she-shed. she pointed at what looked like a pile of rubble and told me that was the beginning of a barn for her husband and his workbench. she was so excited to tell me that we were the last guests at her home and that after a couple weeks she and her husband would return there, would move back into their forever home, would be looking forward to the peace that space, that horizon, the mountains in the distance, the desert up close and personal afforded them. this was her sea-to-shining-sea. this place represented her freedom, the place she would heal from several medical challenges, the place she would grow old, the place she truly loved with all her heart. i wanted to weep for her happiness.
this is the time – RIGHT NOW – when we all get to vote for the place that represents our freedom. this is the time – RIGHT NOW – when we all get to vote for healing our nation from the division that has been stoked by the voices in maga-land. this is the time – RIGHT NOW – when we all get to vote so that we might grow old in a democracy, so that our children and their children can grow old in a democracy. this is the time – RIGHT NOW – that we all get to vote for a place we love with all our heart.
it matters not if we have a fancy home or a plain home. what matters is that we are grateful for this democracy that houses whatever home it is we have, wherever it is we live in these united states . what matters is that we are grateful for the freedoms, the constitution, the checks and balances of power, the mutual respect of each other – our sameness and our differences, the ability to have a voice.
we drove about 1900 miles. we saw the ultra-fancy and we saw the hovels in the middle of nowhere. we marveled at the uncanny ability of people to be resilient, to tenaciously cling to life and livelihood, regardless of their circumstance. we dreamed that this country would continue to address hardship – in all its forms – and that we would continue to step only forward.
we spoke about the airbnbs we stayed at. there were five, all different. this home – in the desert and unlike any of the others – touched my heart. this woman did the best she could to offer up her house to others who are traveling, to invite people in, to envelop them in warmth and the reassurance of home, albeit temporarily. i have so much respect for her – her unapologetic sharing of her home. she offered her beloved and imperfect space to complete strangers, trusting we would care for it. it was so much more than the option that offered a stark, austerely modern building, sans thoughtful gestures. it was a slice of real life.
real life is a country filled to the brim with people – all different. real life is a country that stands by e pluribus unum – out of many, one.
real life is meeting people – across this country – everyone different, in every different kind of circumstance – knowing we are all in this together.
real life is recognizing the urgency we face. it is being honest about what we could potentially lose and to whom we could lose it.
real life is RIGHT NOW – when it is completely and utterly delusional to think that everything would be better if the maga agenda wins, if hatred and bigotry and extreme nationalism and misogyny and the undermining of democracy win.
real life would never be the same. this country – our home – would never be the same.
reverse threading 