and the beautiful flower – with tiny white petals – its seeds were ripening. slowly, it began to wrap its inflorescence in, protecting. and the tiny bird’s-nest-shape remained, wound around, parenting, holding dear until the dried seeds, ready, release and go off into the world.
nature repeats itself. its stories – from one species to the next, one genus to the next – seem inordinately similar.
we – now adults – have left our own green-bird’s-nest years ago. it was a haven of sorts, but only for a time, as we grew. and then, suddenly, we are out and about in the world, riding the jet stream, surfing the tide, subjected to scorching sun and bitter cold. we trust the world to carry us safely. we are innocent seeds.
we learn – in different stages of our growth – that though we are held in unconditional love by some, there are others who will not tend us gently. we begin to discern the difference. we choose those who support us, whose inflorescent arms wrap us lightly, tenderly. we are buoyed, encouraged, picked up, bolstered by these arms. the others – the ones who aim to dilute, push down, disempower – they are loud voices – righteous and suffocating and dispiriting.
but – amidst either – we are still seeds as we continue on, other seeds also on this way.
and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – once held gently and released – always with the knowledge that there are nurturing tiny and big blossoms out there, sharing the universe with us.
and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – to, similarly, hold gently and release – with empathy our north star as we float and soar, celebrating every single other seed.
mount everest wisdom. mark whetu, professional guide – passionately speaking about the mountain – maintaining, “one more step. you can always make one more step.”
it is without any doubt that i can say i will not be climbing everest (or, for that matter, k2 or annapurna et al). i have watched enough video footage to know that it would not be possible for me to summit. i don’t feel badly about that. i know that there are other challenges i will take on, other summits to step to. and those will take remembering the same mantra “one more step” with the same bravery.
we each have our everests, himalayan mountain peaks up close and personal. some of them are indeed adventures – the stuff we try during time away from work, on vacations near and far. some of them are health issues – and we work toward healthy. some of them are traumas we have lived through – and we, as survivors, work on healing, a little bit at a time. some of them are learning challenges we place before ourselves – to learn a language, to learn to dance, to learn to build, to learn the piano. some of them are more philosophical – a chance to explore and try to understand social and political issues, to dissect and parse out and ask questions, have discourse and form opinions based on true information. some of them are more existential – to sort out how we belong in the world, no small feat.
regardless, there is no way ‘there’ from ‘here’ without taking steps.
“on the road of experience i’m trying to find my own way sometimes i wish that i could fly away when i think that i’m moving suddenly things stand still i’m afraid ’cause i think they always will“
(john denver – looking for space)
mark was on everest. in an excruciatingly difficult situation, he speaks to the standing-stillness of choice. he knows that after the way up, the way down is an imperative for survival. he knows the only way there – either way – is one step at a time.
it’s the only way no matter what. no matter the challenge, no matter the summit. one baby step at a time.
but – juxtaposed on the same life-wave-riding surfboard – i love to get away. i love roadtrips and adventure, exploring backroads, immersing in new places. though i am fed noticing the extraordinary in the familiar, i thrive on images of the unfamiliar. more than once i have cried entering a canyon or at mountain-range first glimpse or surrounded by the scent of a lodgepole pine forest or the quiet of an empty trail or the quaking of aspen leaves.
so i yearn for these places – the ones we have been to and have loved and the ones we dream about.
i’m not high-maintenance when it comes to vacations. i’m not a resort-type or a cruise-type, not a disney-type or an amusement-park-type. i don’t need all-inclusive or my bed turned-down. i don’t need all-you-can-eat-any-time-of-day-or-night. i don’t need fancy or plush or luxurious. i definitely don’t need contrived.
it’s pretty simple. what i do need – is a little or big getaway. short distance, long distance. time to leave, see new things, experience new places, feel the sun from a different latitude or longitude. and then time to go home and feel the hygge that is ever-present back here, the moments that go by perhaps a little underappreciated, to feel the here and now without regret or longing, a chance to revive my homebody-ness.
the seagull looked at me furtively, side-eyed. he acted like i just wasn’t there, stepping along the harbor channel wall at his own pace, seemingly not too nervous about my presence.
writing, i’m holding my weathered copy of jonathan livingston seagull in my hand. jonathan thrived. he left the traditional flock of gulls so that he could fly, soaring higher than he had ever soared. he was an outlier but was kind and loving, generous with the skills he learned.
i’m thinking he was as much an artist as those of us who are artists.
ever since, well, forever, i have had a thing about seagulls. i have a seagull collection in a box in the basement. in the 70s, it was a popular tchotchke – a plaster or wood base that looked like a piling or rocks or shoreline with a thin metal piece atop which was a seagull. sold in every beachfront town, i was – back then – a willing buyer. i had seagulls everywhere in my room. they represented the beach for me – my winter/spring/summer/fall sanctuary. and then i read richard bach’s book. and i was hooked. it resonated with me back then, this story of breaking away, hopefulness, dreaming, accomplishing. i was 18 and i was a jonathan-livingston-seagull.
my soaring seagull days ended abruptly at 19.
but in these days now – as i walk the lake michigan beach or hear the gulls as they fly overhead our house – i am reminded. the caw of the gull is reassuring and, as i gaze up watching them swoop and soar, i feel vestiges of the surf – the sound and the ocean from long ago. tide out. tide in.
i walked along the channel and, in parallel lines, the gull started to step along the wall. and then he stopped, put both feet firmly on the cement.
and, still looking at me sideways, whispered, “don’t forget you know how to fly.”
you are surrounded by the forest – dense, unyielding, a bit dark. though there are paths, they are still shadowed by big trees, overgrowth that doesn’t seem to allow in the light. and then – as you are plodding on and on, making an effort to maintain your equilibrium, to stay in center, you come to the tiniest clearing. and, looking up, there is sky. clear blue sky.
a periscope to the universe.
and suddenly, your worries and angsts, your doubts, your lost road are scaled down, lessened to tiny pinpricks of stars, unseen in the day-sky, though ever-there, allayed in the bluest-blue, soothing hope in the periscope, a reminder of perspective and time and expanse and right now.
and you stand, with all the creatures in the forest, and look up – for minutes and minutes unblinking until you are slightly dizzy from your stillness. and you lower your head, stretching your neck, your gaze-to-the-heavens broken.
but you are moved. you are reminded of your tiny-ness in the vastness. you remember you are part of this universe and, that just as you are not alone in the light that the leaf-periscope offers, you are not alone in the dark either.
you breathe. a deep breath. a prayer. a gratitude.
and you walk on in the forest, knowing, for certain, that you will find natural clearings with big spaces of light. knowing, too, that curling your hand into itself and peering through – like a hand-periscope – you can focus on smaller bits of the forest and within it, find the bits of light between the leaves.
of course i loved them right away. they are from long island. i’m from long island. it’s simple. my people!
we have watched – many – sipandfeast youtube videos. jim and tara have brilliantly put together a life all about cooking. splendid cooking. legacy and contemporary recipes. italian-american and, as they say, new york-inspired food. now, what’s not to love about new york-inspired food?!! they make me long to be back there.
i was perusing instagram the other evening and there they were…making cocktails. because the drinks looked both lovely and refreshing on a hot summer’s night – and because they each had a sprig of mint in them – i watched. of cawwwwse!
the camera panned to tara, as she was garnishing the drinks. mint in her hand, she slapped it gently against the glass saying, “give those mint leaves a little bit of a whack to release their oil” and then added it to the drinks. simple, practical wisdom.
all of life fell into place.
just a few days earlier in the week – during dinner on our deck with 20 – i had added mint from our potting stand to our ice waters. i was curious that i didn’t really taste the mint, though there was a considerable sized leaf in my glass.
but…i hadn’t whacked it.
now i understand.
funny how that just seems to apply to – well – everything.
a little gentle whack.
sometimes, it just propels us forward a tiny bit. sometimes, it stops the whirling thoughts tornado-ing in our minds. sometimes, it nudges the spinning plates – all spread out on the horizon plane – and lines them up so that we can get to them one by one, lined up instead of spread out. sometimes it unlodges the thought bubble, bursting it into a shower of incandescent, bright creating. sometimes, it infuses a little courage, a little bravery, a little chutzpah.
i suppose cartoons are supposed to be mostly funny, though sardonic probably fits the bill too. this might be funny if it weren’t true.
a friend of mine texted a couple days ago to tell me she had bought a peach. one peach. it was $1.02 and it was not even ripe yet.
we bought our favorite jam at the least expensive grocery store. bonne maman mixed berry. it was $5.99.
one 28 ounce can of hunts crushed tomatoes is now $2.49. a minute ago it was $1.49.
20 said the vine-ripe tomato was $3.00. for one.
the guy at the meat counter picked up a steak. he looked at us and sighed, “how did this get so expensive?”. the little boy with him pushed closer to us and piped up, “have you heard of inflation?”
our gas and electric bill is on the budget plan. we are ridiculously frugal. we are cold in the winter and hot in the summer. it is $326/month.
our internet/cable/phone bill was $213 and seemed to be continually rising. in an attempt to pare down, i spent what seemed like half my life last week on the phone with them. it is nearly impossible to lower costs with this company. i have had their service the entire time i have lived in this house. 34 years.
were i to be a new customer, customer service said there would be many options from which i could choose. but – as a three-plus-decade customer – there are not. i can eliminate all my channels but 15 and save about $10. and what about my loyalty??
they transferred me to the retention department. i wonder why.
i own 200% of my original pieces of music, my original songs. 100% of that is the compositional copyright and the other 100% is the sound recording copyright. with the exception of one vocal song which i collab’ed on, and one song where i gave my dueting partner a percentage for a few lyrics he changed, i have solely written each piece.
i did not find myself near the bluebird cafe in nashville or any of the listening rooms in nyc or los angeles when i was writing any of these albums. by the time i was writing for albums i would be recording, i was a mom of two small children, one a tiny toddler. my writing took place in the midst of potty-training and reading stacks of books, pbj’s and grilled cheese with the crust cut off. my growing-up piano was the instrument on which i wrote my first three albums, surrounded by barbies and matchbox cars, vhs tapes of barney and disney movies. i wrote with children on the bench, children under the bench, children on my lap.
in my most recent composing, a bit ago now, i still found myself writing this way…with many plates spinning and in short spurts of dedicated time. it was a practice i honed through the years and it served me well, this multi-tasking.
vocal song lyrics are found on scraps of paper, on pa-pads, on napkins, with letter names of notes and jotted rhythmic gestures next to the words. some of these took weeks of fine-tuning, changes and wordsmithing. others took ten minutes. total. slow dance is one of those.
the album as sure as the sun is one that celebrates life and love and relationship, in its many facets. after five instrumental albums (and another nine albums later) with the very best producer – also my arranger and a consummate musician – i worked with a nashville producer on this vocal full-length. in los angeles for some pre-recording meetings, we put the song same sweet love to pencil and paper, adding it to the lineup for asats production. it’s a totally different energy to collaborate on a song – to share the writing – and something i had little experience with. we both ended up singing on this song and we co-own it.
the very wide spectrum of love – and its impact, its mystery, its universally understoodness (and not-understoodness) – is one of the emotions to which songwriters gravitate. powerful and complex, there is no limit to reaching listeners, a strong connection the tie between music and emotions, a driving force.
i’ve read that a recent psychology of music study revealed that in every decade over the past six decades (since 1960), as much as 67% of all song lyrics were about romantic love. it’s not surprising.
when i do pick up pencil and paper again, looking at the line-up of songs already written for a potential next vocal album, i’d imagine that there may be some editing. i’d imagine that the arvo pärt note-smith will step into the instrumentals. i’d imagine that some lyrics will change in the line-up, maybe a melodic gesture or two, maybe the harmonic structure. i’d imagine that – maybe – in the review of these last years there might be a few new pieces, maybe a whole album’s worth of songs or instrumentals that muster their way past my editing delete-r.
i’d guess that there might be songs about transition, about relevance, about aging, about simplicity. i’d guess that there might be songs about hard decisions, hard times, hard losses. i’d guess that there might be songs about love, in all the corners of one’s life.
and i’d guess i’ll own 200%, back in my studio, comfortable writing alone.
“if left unchecked, teasel can form large dense patches and severely impact a habitat planting. teasel can be very difficult to manage because once established it pollutes the soil with durable seed that can germinate throughout the growing season.” (plantscience.psu.edu)
“leaves have spines on the underside of the midvein and smaller spines on bases on the upper leaf surface. the stem leaves are opposite and prickly, especially on the lower side of the leaf midvein.” (nwcb.wa.gov)
“handling teasel is best done with heavy gloves, every part of the plant is prickly to the point of piercing human skin.” (fairegarden.wordpress.com)
“once teasels become established in an area, they are hard to eradicate.” (fllt.org)
“if left unchecked, teasel quickly can form large monocultures excluding all native vegetation.” (illinois.edu)
if left unchecked…
it would seem these teasel beg the metaphoric reference to people within communities. it is no wonder – in these times – that my mind immediately goes there.
but teasels are beautiful, with interesting texture. like the flat-back-hand-carder for the vintage spinning wheel in our basement that cards wool or raises the nap on fabric, they were utilized for decades and were initially cultivated from the old world. they appear in planted gardens for their dominant sculptural presence and in meadows, growing wild and free.
on a quest – every day – to take photographs, i find myself back at 18. i was given my first 35mm camera when i graduated from high school early, my parents pretty certain i would love it. i did. i was out the next day, walking the beach in winter, reveling in capturing it all. i took that camera everywhere and took pictures of everything, reveling in the freedom of aperture and shutter speed. the deliberate taking of photographs brings one to center, into presence – there is no need for speed. instead, it is about slow movement, about noticing, about paying attention.
and i am – lately – feeling a tad bit back-there. at 18. the tiny lone flower, the shadow, the curl of bark – they get my attention. i pause.
these teasel stopped me. there was a teasing tension between their color, their thorns, the sky, the pine trees in the background. the juxtaposition of the bristle and the luminous. beautiful. i, too, couldn’t resist the teasel.
“despite its noxiousness, it’s impossible not to find the teasel rather endearing…” (jacqueline stuhmiller, fllt.org)
ann’s corner store – forever in my mind fondly known as ‘southport pantry’ – keeps us in ice.
for some reason, and i know it’s a popular problem, our fridge has refused to make more ice. not another cube! not even a shaved kernel. none. it’s not an old fridge – well, it didn’t feel old until a moment ago when i realized i purchased it in 2013 – but, wait…is ten years old for a fridge now? hello? kitchenaid?? anyway, it’s not as old as any of our other appliances, so we sort of expect it to work a tad bit more, say, maybe, completely. it also has this other problem. it’s a bottom drawer freezer and under the drawer a skating rink of ice forms and then, the reason unbeknownst to me since fridge and freezer both imply COLD, it melts tiny puddles onto the floor from time to time. so, from time to time, i defrost this sheet of ice – trying to make the pieces as big as possible – kind of like when you are peeling a (i’m dating myself here) drake’s yodel cake or a sunburn (ewww, you say!). and then, the clock starts all over again.
even now – as i write this ahead of time – muggy humidity is streaming in the open windows raising the “feels like” temperature and lowering my sense of humor. post-menopause is not necessarily synonymous with “loves to be hot”. i am picturing myself high on a mountain or maybe in the northernmost reaches of maine. (and i’m not even in the absolutely brutal southwest or southeast.) what that means is – we need ice.
that brings me to ann’s little store – morelli’s deli. because ice melts – a natural phenomenon – we try to buy it close and race it home. even with a cooler, it has the possibility of turning into one large lumpy lump of ice rather than chunks of broken up ice, so one must be ever-thinking when one purchases ice. so we buy it at ann’s. i’m pretty sure we are not keeping ann’s corner store going with our ice purchases, but if everyone in the ‘hood were to buy something there – often – it would surely help keep this family business going. it was pretty exciting the day we realized she added wine to her wares, stocking many labels, many varietals. it meant we could take a long walk around allendale and the lakefront and stop and purchase a bottle of wine for happy hour – without getting in the car. all the adult beverages at our wedding were provided by ann, so we do have a soft spot for that place.
there are many places in our travels we glance over at a shoppe and wonder aloud how they are able to keep going, to pay the overhead, to make a little money, to stay open. it’s been a crazy time and i suspect that the craziness – financially speaking for middle-class americans – is not ending. soon, student loan payments will be restored and, i suspect, the power companies will raise their rates again in time for winter. the cable/internet/phone company – with whom i have spent several hours of my life in the last week – will perk up its billing with some additional package fees or the unpromoted end of promotional deals and the health insurance EOBs that arrive in people’s homes will surprise households with uncovered expenses.
so, it’s no small wonder that ann and tom – in their zeal to run a family store and keep allendale in italian beef and homemade soups and guac, chips and kringle, coffee and spirits – are succeeding one baby step at a time. their business challenges must be grand, like so many of us who own a business. but their commitment to this community has been and is commendable and heartwarming and we are fiercely dedicated to their success. they know practically everybody. and still remember tiny craig running in with the car change purse to buy donuts.
and so, for however long it is that our freezer just refuses to freeze water into icecubes, we will get our ice from ann’s. and then, if we are lucky enough someday to have an in-fridge icemaker that works, well, we’ll get other stuff there.
because not everyone is lucky enough to have a corner store around the corner and down the block. but we do. and we love going there.
reverse threading 