“the thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.” (anna quindlen)
and maybe that’s the true gift of the sweet phase. time to embrace it all; time to let it all go.
like the heggies pizza truck touted on the highway into minnesota, “uncomplicated. unapologetic. authentic.”
and so we jump in. with both feet.
well, after a nap or two.
we are suddenly aware of time ticking-ticking and we are aware that there will be a day when our stardust will simply return to the sky.
we speak of our ages now, unapologetically. we are-who-we-are authentic. our uncomplicated is a complex mesh of realness. nothing flashy, nothing fancy. simple stuff.
in the way that making history works, we know we started penning the autographs we will leave behind long ago. there are brilliant moments in the swirl of pen; there are shameful moments in the kerning. all are part of the whole. it’s clearly why we need a nap or two.
suddenly now, though, there is a stillness after everything that has come before. there is a bit of time to catch our breath. there is quiet and rest. there is acceptance.
we wake up from the disorienting hibernation-from-quietude of trying-to-get-it-all-right, the long immersion into striding-striding sans the perspective gift of rest, the push-pull of the aggressive nature of competition. we stretch achy joints and revel in the sun rising through the window. we take time to reflect, to ponder, to learn.
we glance in the rearview mirror and laugh at the deep creases around our eyes, choosing instead to focus on now and what is ahead. we release the breath we have held for so long.
we jump in, the concentric circles of our splash into the river rippling out.
“i’m sure not afraid of success and i’ve learned not to be afraid of failure. the only thing i’m afraid of now is of being someone i don’t like much.” (anna quindlen)
i imagine that we are not alone – dreaming of what it must be like to be an olympic athlete, an olympic stand-out, an olympic champion. it is truly riveting to watch these incredible athletes do the most incredible things with their bodies. we marvel and have great respect for the dedication and commitment it all takes. not to mention talent.
neither of us is particularly athletically gifted, though it is clear to me that david has me out-prowessed. nevertheless, we exercise together and hike together and have biked together and – in our stand-out skill – nap together.
jessie holmes – on life below zero and referencing the iditarod – once said, “where your mind goes, your body follows.” we suspect oprah, with her feelings about visualization and manifestation, would agree. we do find that to be true. what you visualize is often what you become capable of, so it’s best to visualize the best. dream it, do it.
even so, there are certain limitations.
when i was eight i sat on a porch rail, with a string rein tied around a vertical post in my hand, in klamila, finland, visualizing myself as an equestrian. i was galloping over hill and dale, flying over jumps. the only thing that stopped me? i had no horse. my life-long dream…dashed with this single small detail.
when i was in junior high we were introduced to hurdles in gym class. i set up rope between trees in our yard and ran an obstacle course over and over and over, trying to perfect my time, perfect my hurdle. somehow – and it still baffles me – i never turned into a track and field star.
when i was thirty and we had just moved to wisconsin, i decided to pursue my life-goal of being an olympic ice skater. i could skate forward and backward and do crossovers, but i had never learned how to do salchows or axels or anything in the spinny bucket. with the other eight-year-olds in my class i attempted my first spin. my feet got it right but my inner ear has never caught up. i – a motion-sick-queen – was instantly dizzy. it had not occurred to me that spinning was a part of spinning. i retired my new figure skating tutu and turned to my piano.
some things are just not doable for some of us. and that’s what makes this world so wonderful. because there are people who are good at all sorts of things. really good. and together, we can put it all together and be the best we can be. together. the olympics are such a heartfelt and touching example of this ever-present, though somewhat under-recognized in the off-years, possibility.
we looked at each other, pondering which of the sports we would want to excel in – given the chance to pick one. we agreed it all looks incredibly hard.
“where your mind goes, your body follows,” he reminded us.
this olympic athlete stuff is exhausting! “phew!” we sighed.
when she knew i was coming to visit, she’d be sure to make a big decanter of her iced tea and a whole bunch of her own salty deep-fried french fries. she’d put it all in the fridge to wait for me, because she knew i’d head for that yellow chex cup in the cabinet, pour the iced tea and pull the container of cold fries out to munch on. i was predictable. and she was ever-so-reassuring. to be known.
we arrived in minnesota for our mini-vacay and took a little tour of our cousins’ beautiful home. when we got to our bedroom, i laughed aloud. there on the dresser, in a basket, was a whole bunch of bananas. just waiting for the wide-awake-in-the-middle-of-the-night moment when nothing is better or helps more than a banana. to be known.
we were at the tapas bistro, laughing over amazing tapas and sangria, when our chef’s table paella showed up. my son turned to me – clearly remembering my allergic sensitivity to crabmeat – and asked, “think there’s crab in there?”. my heart swelled. to be known.
we have every opportunity under the sun to notice others, to pay attention, do little things, reassure them, to be sure they know what it feels like to be known. from the tiniest things to the biggest things – listening to stories, zeroing in on words they use, the tilt of their head, the inflection in their voice, the look on their face when they feel comforted, remembering important dates, their history, favorite things, their ongoing challenges – we can do the best we can, to walk alongside, keep others company, be reassuringly there, let them be known.
tyler waited on our table at ikes. he was a wonderful server, personable and attentive. before the evening was out, we knew his boyfriend lived out of state, that he was working on moving there, that it would put him further away from his family a state even further to the west, that they wanted to buy a house together. we encouraged him and listened to his stories, the four of us getting ready to adopt this lovely young man. even though his spirit seemed happy the whole time, it was clear that in his telling of his story, our questions and encouragement, he was lifted. he felt just a little bit known.
i stood on a chair and dug the suntea jug out of the top shelf of the pantry. i carefully counted out eight lipton teabags. my momma used seven, but this jug was bigger than her decanter. i pulled the tags and their tiny staples off and put the whole thing out back on the deck in the sun. hours later, we brought it in, added many slices of lemon and a lot of mint from the garden next to the daylilies.
we waited a day before trying it. my momma’s iced tea was brewed in a pot on the stove and she used realemon juice and some sugar, so i knew it wouldn’t taste exactly the same as hers. but having real iced tea was like having momma around.
we took out a couple bonne maman preserves jars we use as glassware and spouted some iced tea into them. clinking a toast, we tasted it – this homebrew that was refreshingly lemony and minty. i raised a glass to my momma and looked at david.
“now all we need are some cold french fries,” i said.
“i know,” he said.
and even though there were no fries, it felt the same.
we would have missed it. but because we are backroads people, we had a chance to revel in it.
the mississippi was grand next to us as we drove the wisconsin great river road south – stunning, really – winding its way along the wisconsin-minnesota border. driving the interstate both directions may have gotten us there faster, but would not have had the same effect on us.
the first time we drove into wisconsin together – from the west – we drove this river road. we lumbered along in a budget truck with david’s stufff in the back, moving him here from seattle. i wanted him to see just how beautiful the bluffs were, just how magnificent the river – both from soaring heights and up-close and personal. i wanted him to have a memorable entrance into his new home state.
we hadn’t been that route since. so it was pretty special to take it home again. we stopped along the shoulder of the road to look at the farm where – bumbling along in our budget truck – we had found our dogdog. we remembered the hilly driveway up, the time spent with farmer don, the other aussies running free and this one black puppy, stealing our hearts. it was with more than a little anticipation we stopped in the little towns along the way to window shop a bit, to get a bite for lunch. we ambled and time – and everything else – stood still.
our bit of time with cousins and a drive along the misi-ziibi gave us just the space and breath we needed. the sweet phase has some deliberately quieter – more peaceful – moments than whatever the rest of the phases were. it is not burdened with speed or competition. it has intentional appreciation of things we may have missed otherwise.
the back way added – i dunno – maybe forty minutes drive time in a full-day’s drive. not a bad return on investment. we’ll pick it every time.
this time is fraught. there is not a lot of love going around. visit social media and you’ll see some pretty horrifically mean stuff. it never fails to surprise me what some folks are saying. like, wow….really?
in some ways it feels as if THINKING has stopped and REACTING has stepped in full force. under the guise of political prowess, it appears anything goes, yet, i wonder how many people are really stopping to think about the if-this-then-that of their staunch stances. dire ramifications are being ignored in deference to bandwagon chaotic rhetoric, mean-spirited pokes, two-sided mouth-talkers, atrocious meannesses. unimaginable backsliding cruelty fait-accompli project 2025/agenda 47 lays in wait, smugly enjoying the poverty of scutiny, the lack of reasoning. it’s sort of like everyone needs to go to time-out and THINK. critical thought is consequential. it is imperative. this IS an inflection point.
because – truly – this democracy is on the line. it is no longer ambiguous. it is no longer questionable. it is non-negotiable. it’s time to decide – where do we go from here? what do we really want for those who come behind us? what kind of country will this be? what kind of people will we be? who are we? who are you?
so, not too long ago, we took our penzey’s flag and hung it up on a spare old door we have sitting in the garden against the garage out in the backyard.
because “choose love” deserves to be flying (or, in this case, at least hanging.)
a reminder in a time – it appears – we all need reminders: are you choosing love? really?
if you need another reminder, watch lady gaga singing at baku 2015 european games opening ceremony. and imagine. imagine that here.
choose love. always.
*****
*thank you to bill penzey who steadfastly and bravely supports choosing love at all times.
we are making it by littlebabyscion. again. finally!
it’s been a long while since we have taken a roadtrip of any length – and, truth be told, this one isn’t really all thaaaat long either. but it’s longer than just a few hours and so we needed to prep.
we washed and cleaned out LBS for the journey. it had also been a while – and for the last few days we have felt mighty proud driving around in a pristine vehicle (ok, as pristine as 275000 miles can get – shy of sandblasting and repainting the rims – as our son has suggested). we’ve made lists of what to bring and we are carefully planning snacks for in the car because we cannot drive any distance without them.
to say we are excited is an understatement. we also have made sure we have all kinds of other roadtrip paraphernalia – like duct tape, rubber bands, an extra bottle of engine oil, twist-ties, a flashlight – because with 275k one never knows what one might encounter. hopefully, we won’t need any of that. at all. none of it. (hoping that LBS is paying attention…)
it will all be over in a flash. like any vacation or mini-vacation. but the anticipation is delicious and we – like the hosts waiting for us on the other side of the road part of our roadtrip – are squeaking with excitement.
in the rare moments d texts me, my phone ringtone is john denver’s annie’s song.
“you fill up my senses like a night in the forest, like a mountain in springtime, like a walk in the rain, like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean, you fill up my senses, come fill me again.
come let me love you, let me give my life to you. let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms. let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you. come let me love you, come love me again…”
and in those moments – daisy moments – i am reminded, once again, of the improbability of two tiny starflecks in the universe noticing each other, of the utter impossibility of our meeting, the sheer unlikeliness of our marrying, the astounding unimaginable gift of our time together.
even in the moments when my senses are overburdened, impatient, saturated, senseless.
daisies in any form, every stage – this wildflower fleabane – are just like hearing annie’s song. because i am me, they bring tears to my eyes.
“remember,” they whisper from the meadow on the side of the trail, “just remember.”
a long, long time ago my big brother penned a calligraphy print. it says, “may there be such a oneness between you that when one weeps the other will taste salt.”
it was one of those and-the-light-goes-on moments.
i was just scrollin’ along on social media and came across a meme that said this:
“if someone treats you badly, just remember that there is something wrong with them, not you. normal people don’t go around destroying other human beings.”
amazing where you find illumination.
and, battling back my own fuzzy remnants of hurt, i could see it. through the cluster of experiences, the middle of confusion, the unanswered questions, the mind-boggling chaos, i could see it.
and – like you – in any circumstance wherein you found yourself equally as astounded at the behavior of another person or other persons – i could see the rational logic in this simple statement.
we are all capable – and guilty – of hurting others at some point. we would not be human were we to be above this.
but the other-level-ness, unequivocally deliberate poor treatment – is another story. and those among us who have been privy to this sort of thing need remember this meme.
because – in plain language – normal people are not super mean like that. normal people are not agenda-driven like that. normal people are not pushing others under water. normal people don’t lie to substantiate their actions.
normal people choose kindness. normal people appreciate each other. normal people consider what is best for all, recognizing our interdependency. normal people lift each other up. normal people hold each other up. normal people are honest and transparent.
i grew up on long island – which is, quite obviously by definition, surrounded by water. i spent the vast majority of my time outside at the beach. winter, spring, summer and fall. pebbly beaches along the sound, sandy dunes along the ocean, beach grasses and willowy reeds dominate the vegetation and, so, seeing cattails is like seeing home.
the next time we go there i’ll spend a good bit of time at those beaches. it will be time to reclaim them, to reclaim that place.
it is no surprise to learn that these plants that pull at my heart – cattails – are resilient and adaptable, persistent and resourceful, able to flourish in all kinds of circumstances and under adverse conditions.
spiritually, they symbolize peace and tranquility – the very things i always felt at those beaches back in the day, the same thing i feel as we hike through portions of our trail where we are dwarfed by the cattails surrounding us.
i slow down in those sections, soaking up the denseness of these stands on both sides of the trail. seagulls and red-winged blackbirds elicit the same when i spot them – they zip around and i stand – transported back in time to the marshland on my way to crab meadow or the dunes surrounded by sand fencing on fire island. i stand in memory. no wonder i love this trail.
we arrive back home after hiking – a tiny bit sunburned, our legs tired. the grasses and daylilies in the front yard greet us as we pull in. they are robust and their greeting is in chorus. and i realize that these, too, are the plants of the island. these grasses, these daylilies, spilling-over hydrangea, the ferns in the back, the hosta, sweet lavender…they are the plantings of the waterfront; they are familiar.
we surround ourselves purposefully – and sometimes unintentionally – with things that help us, things that feel good, things that ground us. we sink roots deep and move in the wind like the reeds in marshes, like cattails in a summer storm. we are resilient and flexible, making do with workarounds and chutzpah. we survive and have unlimited ability to thrive.
there was a tornado watch. because i am pretty storm-averse, i was vigilant about checking whether it would become a tornado warning. i have things prepped for such moments and have put them into practice each time a warning has come our way.
some storms, though, are not forecasted with such specificity. these – the ones we can’t prep for – are the stuff of bootstraps. these are the ones that test our levels of fear, our anxieties, our outrage, our limits of patience. we try not to imagine the worst as it all starts to shake out. we struggle. sometimes we simply flail and tread water, wondering when it all might stop. we are surprised by the people around us – in both good and not-so-good ways.
we’ve all been through these storms. to be human is to encounter them. health, relationships, work – the storms come and test us, buffeting our attachment to things-staying-the-same, our cling to the season.
and after a bit of time – and some mussing of our lives – we emerge.
and the pilot light* is still there. it’s still lit. the job of pilot lights, it hasn’t dimmed nor gone out. it’s just simply waiting. a tiny flame. waiting. and burning. and waiting.
and then, eventually, after a great deal of time or a very little time, the new season begins.
“…for some things there are no wrong seasons. which is what i dream of for me.” (mary oliver – hurricane)
*****
*crediting mark with this superb expression – “the pilot light”
reverse threading 