many, many years ago a dear person said to me, “i see the full moon out my window, and, in it, you.”
like you – especially if you are a woman – i have had a mixture of flattering comments and detritus thrown my way. this one sentence – spoken to me so long ago – stands in one of the most complimentary spots. it wasn’t sugary sweet, nor cajoling. it wasn’t smarmy; it wasn’t even ingratiating. there was no endgame, no agenda. there wasn’t even any expected response. it just was.
i thought about this the other night while i lay awake in the wee hours. from my cozy spot, out the mini blinds to my right, i could see it – the full moon. and every time i see the full moon, i think of these words.
i don’t think that the person who said this to me knew what kind of a gift they were giving me. i don’t think that they knew i would carry these words for decades. they are tucked in, ready to be plucked and re-heard in the cassette tape of my memory at any moment. they are words of value, words of connectivity, words of great love.
for how often have you stood on the ground-dirt of this earth and looked up at the moon…knowing full well that this – indeed – is the same moon we all see, the same moon that shines on all earth, the same moon above everyone’s piece of ground? when every beloved, every family member, every friend, every person of every single social identifier looks at the moon, it is this moon. no other.
we each – here on this earth – simultaneously inhabit this very moon. we each are a part of its light, privy to its lunar cycles, part of the tide of this earth.
as we watched the olympics opening ceremony, i jotted down many of kirsty coventry’s words as the president of the international olympic committee.
she spoke the african word “ubuntu” and i – a part of the earth and of the moon – immediately was drawn to it.
for ubuntu is translated to: i am because we are.
yes.
she continued, “we can only rise by lifting others…respect, support and inspire one another.”
and “the best of humanity is found in courage, compassion and kindness.”
is not each of us held to this basic moral standard? is not each of us obligated to feel gratitude for a place on this earth? is not each of us – as seen in the moon – here to illuminate the rest of earth, to bring light to others, to be light?
in the back corner of the storage room – up on the concrete ledge, behind the boiler and the hot water heater, in a bit of cobweb – sat this the metal wheel. next to it was a plastic exercise ball for small rodents and a water dispenser from a habitat used decades ago.
we took them off the shelf and i washed them all off, thinking i could give them away to someone who might have a gerbil or a hamster, saving them from purchasing these items.
but it had been decades since i’d used them – our children were little when we had these tiny pets.
so i decided i’d best do a little research to make sure these were still safe.
they are not.
come to find out that the plastic exercise balls don’t have enough airflow and the metal wheel has been the source of injury for these tiny creatures. into the trash they went.
that wheel, though.
both d and i looked at it and then at each other, rolling our eyes. the wheel – the subject of one of our flawed cartoons – a statement piece.
as artists we are used to less. it’s built in to our dna, it seems. we have stepped to the side of the wheel – choosing something different than the norm, different than the 9-5, with a different imperative, with different rules, different expectations, and with clearly different financial rewards as well. without the security of tenure in an institution or corporation and its advantages (particularly in remuneration, advancement, healthcare plans, retirement), we have forged a different path. we have avoided the faster-faster-faster of the wheel, but not without sacrifice.
most of the populace, however, have chosen more traditional routes and now we are watching the administration destroy those, destroy their stability, destroy the respect due each of them.
at the time of this cartoon’s drawing, my own interpretation of it was more of a boss-worker cynical take.
in these times, one quick look at it in the cartoon files and it took on a life of its own:
the oligarchy vs the people.
because – well – it’s obvious, isn’t it?
the haughty, condescending, inflated, pompous hubris – standing around in their opulent affluence – rolling in it – their plenty – while the rest of the people – the real people – work ever-ever faster to get nowhere – to have not-enough.
i’m glad the wheel went in the trash. it’s where it belongs.
as i write this, it is a feels-like of -41 degrees outside. the actual temperature is -14. we are staying inside.
this is one of the bends in the trail i really love. as we come around this outer perimeter of the trail – a section beyond which we have explored with good boots and warm weather – i know that the stand of pines is coming. and with those pines, the scent…
we stocked up before the big freeze. going to the supermarket is astonishing each time we go, so this time was no different. we had a list – and shopped to the list – though we did buy a small bag of cape cod chips not on the list – but it was still a small fortune. we didn’t want to have to go out to resupply in the frigid arctic blast.
not to mention the fact that this time – this time in this world – oddly and horrifyingly suspended – feels overwhelming.
it’s a little bit risky writing a post ahead of its publish date, particularly now. anything could happen, it seems. and we don’t want to seem – or be – tone-deaf.
in the moments of stepping away from all that is happening – and they are merely slight moments – we seek any source of reassurance, any source of comfort, any source of grounding. we try to get good sleep, eat well, drink water, exercise. we try to find things to laugh about, things that take us away from the chaos. we hug the dog. we listen – still – to george winston’s december album. we hike when we can. we plan distractions.
but we’ve cancelled some meaningful plans, things we had on our calendar for months. things we’d been looking forward to. it was disappointing to do so, but we recognized our limits – physical and emotional – and decided to be adult about it.
yesterday, sitting on the old deck glider in the living room, looking out the front window, i tried to reason with myself about it. cancelling plans and tickets and such is not just a nod to the weather or to our personal limits.
it is a deep sigh of the exhaustion we feel as we navigate – with the pummeled populace out there – the current world, the devastation we feel about our country, the shock our hearts register each and every day as we stay as plugged in as we can manage about everything that is happening – rapidly, with no brakes.
sometimes, i guess, one just has to stay still, to sit still, to stare out the window.
and sometimes the trail comes to us and wraps us in it, hoping to assuage our fears, to calm our hearts, to stoke our courage.
we recently saw a car of this color. it was a small vehicle, so it wasn’t an extraordinarily loud splash of chartreuse, but it was bracing nonetheless. i’m pretty sure this person has zero difficulty finding their car in a parking lot. kind of like people with hot pink rollie bags or wild print suitcases – as these bags come down the baggage claim ramp onto the carousel – along with hundreds of indistinguishable black suitcases – the owner happily swaggers up to the conveyor and – without a single doubt – claims their bag. maybe the owner of this car has a rollie bag like that.
no matter what, i remembered seeing this vehicle and maybe that was the point.
littlebabyscion is kind of a car like that. it is different and sticks out. not because it is fancy, not because it has any – really, ANY – bells and whistles. but because it looks different. despite the fact that it is black – i could have gotten it in copper or various other colors – it has a personality unlike other vehicles i have owned or driven. as this vehicle ages and rapidly approaches the 300,000 mile mark, i have some anticipatory grief about its tenure in our life.
big red – our 1998 ford f150 – is big, guzzles gas and doesn’t really zip around town in the same way as LBS. one has to be ever-conscious of its size, particularly in parking lots. one has to be ever-conscious of its lumbering, particularly when crossing traffic or entering highway on-ramps. zero to sixty is not its forte, so we allow a lot more space and time. big red’s personality is a bit cumbersome, a bit ungainly, but well-loved nonetheless, though every now and then it painfully surprises us with some of its 1998 parts parting ways.
even as we know we are in no position whatsoever, we find ourselves pondering what might be next. and that brings me to chartreuse.
as two artists we have always poked at the envelope. we’ll wear jeans and boots when no one else will. we’ll ride the edges of economics when most would shudder to even skirt them. we’d rather have a carried-in pop-up dinner on a trail than dine in haute cuisine. it’s a way of life to be vulnerable.
i stopped under the tree out on the trail, reveling in the color of its needles against the sky. it felt like spring – like an early march day – with only vests on instead of coats, my gloves carried in my pockets.
in the middle of the chaos that is this country right now, it felt good to breathe in some fresh air – damp with melting ice, on the edge of brisk but not quite there. it felt rejuvenating – this color. it felt hopeful.
we came home from the trail and listened to a podcast, watched a couple of updated news videos. i could feel the tiny vibration in my chest start back up again. we shook our heads at the impunity of this country’s leaders. i could feel tears welling up.
i opened my phone to look at photos i had taken on the trail, out in the forest, to look at this photograph.
and i reached out and tightly held hands with chartreuse – not just the color, but the whole notion of it.
the trail was a mixture of ice and mud. in some spots – where the woods doesn’t let in as much sun, there was still snow…with evidence of hikers, horses, some kind of atv tracks.
we needed to get out on the trail. it had been several days since we’d gotten there.
this trail, as I’ve shared before, is the place where we do much sorting. it is the place where we re-center when we feel disoriented. it is the place where we speak of celebrating, where we acknowledge grief. it is the place we can talk or be silent – and either way – in both conversation and silence, we are fully communicating.
so, pulling up our turtles and foregoing any imperative to keep our boots mud-free, we started walking.
in the quiet of these woods, the pastel sun sinking lower in a slowly-graying sky, stark trees as sculptural interruptions with the horizon, thoughts have a way of making their way to the forefront, unimportant stuff drops off, existential takes the limelight.
it was a couple days after this country we live in invaded venezuela, a couple days after a citizen right-around-the-age-of-my-own-children was shot three times in the face and killed by a government agency, which then went on to demonize her.
there are moments when i literally cannot imagine what it must feel like to believe – absolutely and without a doubt – that you are the most powerful person in the world, you are the smartest person on the planet, you are better than anyone else – anyone, anyone, anyone, ever, ever, ever. this kind of exponential narcissism is beyond anything i can comprehend, a complete and utterly ego-driven attitude beyond the pale. the callousness, the cavalier mob-boss certainty, the self-devotion is revolting. being witness to this is living inside this person’s sickness – and, as contagious as it is if one is a sycophant – to which, indeed, we bear witness – for me, it is nauseating, incomprehensible. appalling doesn’t begin to cover it.
we hike because it helps us sort to clarity. even with all the innate complexity of the forest, the ecosystems present, the symbiotic relationships in place, there is still not much that is complicated when you are hiking through. it is all there – surrounding us with beauty and simplicity, the goodness of planet earth.
to juxtaposition that with the hideousness of an administration that is warped beyond comparison is to walk in some sort of unreal reality. this place – these woods – make sense. in the way that winter falls upon the land, the leaves have fallen, the underbrush is in fallow, the land is simply waiting. this place – this nation – makes no sense. in the way that this winter falls upon the land, cruelty has beset us, goodness as-a-country is nowhere to be found, the land from-sea-to-shining-sea is waiting…for its soul to return.
for right now, the clarity that is evident, the thought that i literally cannot imagine but is ever-creeping-forward, is clear-eyed and colored with the horrors of democracy being dismantled – right before our very eyes.
and i wonder about those who find this worthy of cheering. i wonder about those who are aligned with the miserable, vile nature of people in current leadership. i wonder about those who believe in the mass deportations of their neighbors, the abject sadistic horror inflicted upon the populace, the removal of medicaid, of childcare, the endangerment of the LGBTQ community, the loss of affordable healthcare, the unemployment, the cost of living day-to-day, the loss of absolute sanity regarding actual medicine, actual research, actual science, actual healing, the dissolution of international agreements for safety and peaceful coexistence in the world. i wonder how it is that their brains – and hearts – have bought into – hook, line and sinker – this vacuous, ill-intended, dangerous administration.
many of these people were one-topic voters. their immaturity – and their ignorance – are evident. it is shameful that they did not look beyond their one flag-in-the-sand to seek actual clarity about the bait-and-switch in which they were participating.
because now – the thing they can say – as their country teeters dangerously close to falling to authoritarian fascism – is that women have no choice about their own bodies or that we don’t have to succumb to “socialist” healthcare or that we are cleaning out the “dangerous criminals” and, mind you, everyone else with skin color they don’t like or that they don’t have to worry about government oversight over or taxation of their big money and that air will be clean – only it won’t – and it will be deregulated and filled with fossil fuel particulate, and that water will be clean – only it won’t – and it will be deregulated and continue to be vulnerable to pollution and long term harmful pfas, and that crops will be clean – only they won’t – and deregulation on pesticides and fertilizers and sustainability and public health protections will add fuel to the dangerous fire and then – my personal favorite, surely the heartbeat of a healthy country – that their froot loops will soon – in 2027 – finally, finally, finally be safe.
these people – clearly – need to take a walk in the woods.
(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – even if any absence of the happenings of the day, even in the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)
and so…
we didn’t burn the chiminea this past summer or fall. but it sat outside in our backyard, waiting, just in case.
and when winter came and we were in the middle of the middle of rearranging and sorting and all that other stuff I’ve been writing about in the going-through of one’s trappings and baggage, we looked over at it waiting and decided to bring it inside.
we tucked its gorgeously sculptural clay form into the corner of the sunroom, eliminating a high stool we tended to pile upon, simplifying the space. we added a strand of happy lights and a timer and we placed a heart-leafed philodendron on top of the chiminea’s cap.
we stepped back to see it. to decide.
the chiminea has been there every day since and every day since we have exclaimed (yes – exclaimed!) how much we love the chiminea there – inside – in our sunroom – across from the backdoor – tucked in the corner – lit.
i suppose were you to step into our house you might wonder about it. we have these two chunks of concrete, a salvaged architectural column, a reclaimed repurposed piece of old desk, a weathered deck-glider, old suitcases, driftwood, an aspen log, old doors as tables or propped against the wall. in my studio there’s a metal slatted swivel patio chair topped by furry pillows, an old stool, the skeleton of a lampshade. there’s a vintage mailbox with our house number in the bathroom that holds magazines, glass doorknobs that hold towels, an old black shutter that holds space. old coffee pots hold teabags in the kitchen and an old trunk holds a metal sculpture in the hallway. there are two old window frames on the radiator in the sitting room across from a small rickety farm table. and we haven’t gone upstairs yet.
sometimes we take a little walkabout through our house and talk about these things. we kind of glory in the repurposing of these old objects, otherwise possibly put out to pasture. i’d like to think of them all as just waiting.
relevance is a funny thing. like most everyone else, we could certainly go to the local furniture stores and pick out contemporary (as in at least this decade) pieces with which to furnish our home. we could have things that are more – say – typical, more – say – normal, less – say – unusual. but those would also be less relevant to us.
because we are just like the chunks of concrete, the old desk, the weathered outdoor pieces, the old doorknobs and coffee pots, the chiminea.
we are artists. always waiting to be seen. always creating. just in case.
“whatever it is that calls us, that’s our path. and as we walk that path, we have a chance to shine forth who we are. it affects other people around us.” (richard bach)
we were talking about identity. in these later days, i have realized the nonsense of it all. in those striving-striding days of yore, younger versions of ourselves pushed for identity. we poked and prodded and molded and shaped and re-shaped our identity, pushing it out in front of us – as if to parade it, seeking validation. we – somehow in this society based so mightily on valuation – based our value on it. we let it rule us; we let it impact our decisions. we let it undermine our confidence. we let it stoke our egos. all of it.
and, suddenly, it all makes absolutely no sense.
so often, who we are falls prey to what we are.
he asked what we would do in retirement. i laughed. we’re already there. we’re doing it. it’s not a lot different than an artist’s path before retirement. it’s all-the-time.
we just are.
the path of artistry is not for the meek. it’s not a path of return-on-investment, for the investment of one’s heart far outweighs any yields, particularly in a society that underestimates its arts. it’s not a path of certainty, for scrappy is the only thing that is unquestionable. it’s not a path of sanctimony, for any sense of haughty righteousness must fall to the wayside of vulnerable creating. phony should not co-exist with authentic. caste should not co-exist with truthful art-making. all that pretense stuff – wrapped up in some version of identity in which one trembles when asked “what do you do?”
i’ll never forget a dinner i once attended, now years ago. seated in a fancy place with people i did not know, surrounded by those on ladder rungs i might not ever visit, i was asked that question, “what do you do?”
i answered that i was an artist…a recording artist….a composer…a singer-songwriter…a performer. the person – on that other rung – stared at me and gave a little laugh. “nooo, what do you REALLY do?” he asked.
i walk a path. i try my best to create. i try – not always successfully – to shine the truth of who i am, without bending or sacrificing the who of who i am. i try to affect others in a good way.
i know that there will be hundreds – likely, thousands – of cds with my name on them someday in some antique store. people will walk by and either give a quick second look or none at all. they won’t know who i was. they won’t know what i composed, the music i recorded and performed, the words i wrote. they won’t know what my voice – or even my laugh – sounded like.
but i will have walked a path that was mine alone. i will have joined hands with those i loved to walk alongside. i will have yearned and regretted and belly-laughed and wept. i will have realized that art – including music – is the answer to all the questions.
the deer prints will fade as the snow melts. it will be much the same for mine, i suppose.
were i able to go back to the linen-clothed table in the dining room of the country club, i should have looked evenly across the table and answered the guy who asked me what i really do, “whatever it is that calls me.”
though i haven’t worn them out-out yet, i have new boots. with a rubber outer, they will keep my feet dry and, hopefully, warm. as i write this – ahead of the calendar – i’m not sure what i am saving them for or why i am saving them – it is a quirk – this save-it-for-good-thing – i’d like to give away at some point – but, since it is still mine, i am still saving them – at least at the time of this writing (way ahead of today).
it seems it will be a white christmas. at least partially, with bits of snow. though it has warmed up a tad since the polar vortex came through, there are still the ever-present piles of snow in parking lots and along the edges of daily living.
so far, we haven’t walked in the snow as much this year as in past years. i’m guessing the combo-platter of the frigid temperatures and the fact that we have been consumed with – guess – yes! – ice-damming have taken the zeal out of our zealous hiking-in-the-snow. i am hoping that more mild temperatures both melt the rest of the ice and rejuvenate our outdoor juju.
last weekend – when the vortex was at its most vort – we stayed in. we wrote, we researched, we read, we decorated, we made soup, we overplayed george winston’s december and hans christian’s door county christmas albums, and we watched the denver broncos squeak past the pack. it was – frankly – too cold to go out. plus, big red had just gotten home from its new fuel-pump-installation and we were less than anxious to test it or our confidence about not having to wait for yet another tow truck. littlebabyscion was way too pleased about staying in the driveway so that iced the cake on staying in, so to speak.
and as i went up and down the stairs, picking through holiday decorations and sorting through stuff, i fell into the unavoidable review of time and life.
the viewmaster of my mind’s eye threw me back: into ice storms and nor’easters on long island, crab meadow beach in the snow, footie pajamas, my parents’ living room, the den fireplace and my growing-up family, eggnog and krumkake, midnight christmas services, caroling, luminaria around our block, open-one-present-christmas-eve, christmas in florida for a few years, arriving in december ’88 wisconsin without a winter coat, being warmly-adopted by linda and bill, our tiny babies, christmas cantatas, a donkey in the church, christmas tree lots, sewing and crafting presents, plates of cookies for santa, 3am gift-wrapping, running the videocamera on christmas morning, wrapping paper and boxes in the fireplace after chopper-dog tore them all up, toddler stocking glee, noisy morning-of mayhem, recording christmas albums in NYC, shipping gifts, shipping albums, concerts, christmas eve brats, choirs, teenagers, santa-lists, cranberry-orange relish, greenbeancasserole, too many decorations, non-stop christmas radio, and then – christmas-tree-on-a-stick, tiny trees, happy lights, more cantatas, more choirs, ukulele carols, more pipe organ, turkey roulade, luminaria and bonfires, more shipping, facetime, quieter mornings-of. and so many other things mixed in.
it has seemed to be a time of some review, a time of serious thought, pondering and ruminating, wistful rising every so often.
looking back – far and near – the long view and what-seems-merely-seconds-ago – and i step into an array of emotions that change like iridescent bubbles in the sun. held by all the memories of before, i glance in front of me, in front of us. i look forward to what’s next – even to this holiday when we are just the two of us on the morning-of, when our grown children celebrate elsewhere, happy for them they are with their dad and stepmom on this day.
if we take a walk – and if there is snow – i will turn around and photograph our prints – steps at a time we have discovered is fluid like all the rest.
the world isn’t stopping. the axis keeps spinning. the moments arrive and then quickly disappear into the eddy of our memory bank.
there’s just so much. there’s just so little. it’s all sooo fast.
the list keeps getting longer. more items to offer to others, more to sell, more to simply dispose of.
i have been the recipient of many hand-me-downs. now, mind you, we use – or repurpose – many of these hand-me-downs….remember, we are the people with the almond 1970s sears kenmore range in our kitchen. still.
because i love numbers, i recently realized that when you add the ages of our three vehicles up right now – this year – in the year 2025 – they add up to 100 years. now, that’s pretty doggone amazing. granted, our little vw bug is included, but if you take that one out, the other two still add up to a whopping 46 years. eh. i digress.
i keep referring back to my sentimental-people-trying-to-divest-of-their-stufffff book. it’s essential self-help material, particularly at a time when we are truly paring down. it helps to read that you don’t have to keep a gift forever – you are not indebted to the gifter in a forever way. and, even if you give some gift away, the sentiment remains. common sense stuff, but not when you are lost in the memories and angst of what to do with the antique relics in a bin or a box.
and so – the box with decorator hanging plates.
i am most definitely not a hanging-plate girl. though they are beautiful, their self-actualization of hanging-on-the-wall will never occur because of me.
we photographed them all the other day, carefully placing them on a black cloth on the table, taking care to avoid glare, turning them over for markings on the back, photographing any written certificates of authenticity that accompany them.
we got through the marketed plates and i have no reticence about listing those for sale – granted, at a low selling price, for the time of hanging-plate-popularity is well past. then we got to the family-handed-down ones. the ones with initials on the back or years (like 1917 or 1930). the ones with sticky notes that my sweet momma wrote, describing the origin of the plate or how it had been passed down. ugh. these are the ones that invoke guilt.
there is one that i will keep. it’s hand-painted, floral, dated 1930, with a hand-threaded wire for hanging, leaving the delicious mystery of who initially placed it there. other plates, however, would only be stored – and that is what i am trying to avoid: long-term storage. and so, i suspect i will offer them to others, perhaps sell the ones that are not family-member-painted or have distinct family connections. it’s a bit stressful. but i keep reminding myself…they are plates, for goodness sake. it isn’t actual DNA strands i am giving away or selling. sheesh. (back to the book!!!! stat!!!)
and then i’ll be moving on to the punchbowl and the old spinning wheel, a plethora of milk glass vases, too many hobnail pieces to ever use, 1970s-1990s sewing patterns.
the thing about all this going-through that is helpful? the fact that i don’t think much about the state of THINGS while i open bins and boxes and sort and photograph and ponder what to do.
the history of these objects – such treasured items in their day and even now – is forefront in my mind.
it is often the handwritten note by my mom that is more difficult than the object itself. everyone has their own line – i’ll never forget when a sibling threw away years and years of my momma’s calendars. as a calendar-girl, i was devastated to hear this. i would so prefer to read my sweet mom’s calendars and notes she jotted on them than have any piece of furniture or jewelry or painted plate. like i said, we all have different value sets.
and so i puzzle how to properly respect these artifacts i am unearthing – particularly some more obviously family-connected – but dates like 1917 on the back of a plate – a scalloped limoges porcelain plate handpainted in soft blue and green hues – forget-me-nots – in the same year as the united states entered the First World War – in order that the world would be made safe for democracy – these dates, the history of such pieces fast-forwards my thinking to today, catapults me back into what is happening now. i cannot help but travel through the history of this country as i unwrap that which is in the plastic bin.
THE BOOK reminds me that no longer having an object does not disconnect one from its meaning, its emotional value, its gifter or pass-it-down-er. all of that – the true worth – is still valid, still present. nevertheless, i take my time and consider carefully the options of parting with something.
which makes me think: what if this country would stand by its values, its rights and freedoms, its constitution with the same level of respectful restraint? what if this country – and its leaders – would consider carefully the options of parting with the very somethings that have made it a republic, a democracy? what if this country would value handing down to our children and their children and so forth the best of what we can all be?
what will the trinkets and artifacts of this very era conjure up in future generations as they open the bins and boxes left for them?
the day I looked out the sunroom window and saw two black-capped chickadees perched on the-branch-we-brought-out-of-our-living-room was the day i realized all was well. this beautiful branch – from the big old tree in our front yard – was having a renaissance. back in the great outdoors, it was experiencing life – all over again, in a new way.
we missed the branch as soon as we removed it from the living room. it had been there for four years – ever since the water main in our yard burst and the ultra-supersized equipment brought in knocked this big branch off our beloved tree. we pulled it aside and then brought it in, putting it in a big clay pot and right next to the front window, bedazzled with happy lights and in a place of honor.
it was our christmas tree that year and has had a variety of ornaments on it each holiday season since – old vintage shiny brites, silver and glitter silver round balls, crystals. it has held a metal star and a peace sign throughout the year and it has been a tad bit difficult to maneuver around the entire time. regardless, we kept it there – in spite of the difficulty to open or close the mini blinds and open or close the windows. to sit in the recliner next to the tree, one had to be mindful of the little branches blocking the way, waiting to poke one’s eye out. nevertheless, we were dedicated to this tree in our living room, even though it truly took up a lot of space.
this year – as we started our zealous clearing-out, we decided it was time for the tree to move outside and take up a new place on the deck, where we could see it out the sunroom windows. d secured it to the deckboards and the railing and we placed new happy lights on it, along with an outdoor timer so it would greet us at every dusk.
i had a few moments – staring at the blank spot in the living room where the tree had taken up soooo much space – missing it. we will fill the spot temporarily with a little wrought iron table and a curly corkscrew rush plant — which will hopefully last through the winter. but in the long run? i’m not sure. it is kind of nice to be able to open and close the miniblinds without ducking or trying to avoid breaking smaller branches.
my temporary sorrow – at change – eased when i looked out the sunroom window and saw these two chickadees sitting on our old broken branch. one flew away and another landed. i could practically hear the branch sighing, its soul happy. and why not? it was a tree again.
reverse threading 