in the same way this peony bud waits – tightly budded – absorbing the sunshine and the rain, glomming onto every gift nature offers her – i write this ahead, in great anticipation of being in the mountains.
i am a peony bud – wrapped up and waiting to unwind. ready to stand in the sun, soak it in, my breathing a little off as i adjust to altitude, weeping at the first sight of the range in front of us.
and in the same way this peony will soon glimmer in blossoming, i can feel it in anticipation. i can feel standing on a crest or tucked into the aspen forest along the trail or sitting in the brook on a rock. i can feel the petals relax, unwind. i can feel the air brush past me. i can feel my heart beating.
“i am here now,” i will remind myself, “stay here in each moment. don’t go anywhere else but here right now.”
and all that will come – all that will happen – whether ants or good weather or bad – i am nevertheless a bud that will open, unfurling petal by petal. nature and time will have its way. no matter. unconditionally. like goodness and love.
and i will stand today in the mountains – grateful – for peony lessons, for patience and fortitude, for all things unconditional.
we co-wrote an absolutely brilliant song when we were on washington island in the summer of 2019.
[i’m thinking i already posted about this. 1900 + blogs and redundancy is a thing, i guess. my apologies – i know some people really detest redundancy. i, on the other hand, don’t really mind it at all. you can tell me the same delicious story over and over and i will still be a happy listener. (these rules don’t apply to david, of course)]
anyway…now, every-single-time i see a butterfly (and even yes-yes, technically, a moth as well, yup-yup) i cannot help myself. i immediately think of this song and sometimes – ok, most times – i start singing it. “butterfly, butterfly, spread your wings. butterfly, butterfly, fly. butterfly, butterfly, flutter by, to the big blue sky.” (see audio file waaaay below if you are dying to hear this brilliance!)
we cannot help laughing.
really laughing.
like the kind of laughing when your cheeks hurt and your ribs begin to ache, tears start streaming from your eyes and you might even snort. THAT kind of laughing.
we were so inspired back then by our butterfly song, we decided – while still on island – to write another song – fun in the sun – and we tried to record it (see below)…ridiculously harsh sunlight, anything-but-flattering-up-angle, very-very-insanely-close-up…but the moments are recorded no less. for all time.
the red admiral butterfly – that fluttered by and landed right next to us on the adirondack chair on our patio – according to the great google – symbolizes spiritual awakening, transformation, and renewal. all beautifully restorative. truly a gift.
but there is nothing like a good laugh to put things in perspective. for all time.
looking like a new year’s eve party noisemaker waiting to unfurl in celebration, the fern steadily grows. in-between last year’s clipped stalks and in and among dried leaves and the last vestiges of winter’s effect on mulch, it peeks out, pushing up toward the sun. it chooses to thrive, even covered by sandy soil and bits of the past. one day soon i will walk out to the back – where the fern garden is – and this tiny fern will have stretched and straightened and fanned out into a lanky beautiful feather.
it makes me think about blowout noisemakers. all furled up they look relatively innocuous and not particularly capable of being noisy. a little gumption and air blown into them and they can be pretty doggone loud.
the little fern breathes deep and reaches down into where gumption is stored. against the odds, this seemingly fragile, willowy plant rises up, centimeter by centimeter. suddenly it is a powerhouse, standing tall in the rain and a part of the wind in storms.
though it may be all trembly inside as it makes its journey upward and outward, its gumption, air and the sun give it courage and strength. it is tough and resilient and – it is said – has an incredibly strong survival instinct.
how often we are all tiny ferns – over and over – through fallow and rejuvenation, covered in the patina of the past and growing it off. innocuous and silent.
my sweet poppo used to say, “put it in the barn out back!” only we didn’t have a barn out back.
he thought it would be wise to simply save everything – old stuff would all come around again. and, judging by the seventies clothing we are seeing in the boutiques ‘out there’ he was right. bold colors, big pattern, crocheted-granny-square sweaters and vests….i should’ve saved everything. i’d be right in fashion.
now, it goes without saying that in my closet are plenty of items that date back. no…not like six months or a year. they date back to the 2010s, the 2000s, the 90s and beyond. i always think, “save this. it’ll fit again one day/it’ll be in style again one day/i love it too much to give it away so keep it to wear again some day” etc etc. and, to my credit, some things are just classic pieces and they work no matter when you wear them. well, at least in my estimation they do. i’m guessing that’s up for grabs.
as you already know, we love antiquing. it flings us to and fro through the decades we have been on planet earth and is quite entertaining. we laugh as we see the corningware and tupperware we currently own. we stand in front of record albums reliving our teens. we roll our eyes at the inundation of tchotchkes, miscellany and bric-à-brac galore. and then we pass something that just cuts to the chase, goes right to our hearts.
these ice cube trays did it for me.
we had these ice cube trays growing up. i distinctly remember them. steadying the cold tray with one hand, i can feel the crunching thwap of pulling back the aluminum handle, releasing the ice cubes, ice shards flying out of the tray. it totally brings me back to my childhood home.
we stood in front of the ice cube trays for a bit, reminiscing aloud to each other, the only audience who wants to listen to an ice cube tray story.
when we moved on it was to discover that there were three – 3!! – viewmasters also in the booth. because you must – the visceral tugs mercilessly at you – i pulled down on the lever, looking around for the round slide thingies that go inside them. i still own a viewmaster (with a few slide thingies) and i was trying to decide who we should gift with one of these.
alas, we moved on sans purchase. we didn’t even purchase the ice cube trays, even though our kitchenaid icemaker no longer works and we either have to make ice cubes or purchase ice. we have other ice cube trays – ones that work better than the metal ones – and we still hold out hope that one day the icemaker might work again.
but, if those trays had been out in the barn it would have helped us, at least temporarily – until the icemaker revives.
and then outside – on a table in the weather – sat the birdhouse. rusted metal roof, old peeling painted barnwood, a tiny backdoor, and a nest inside, we were smitten.
$5.28 later and my poppo was smiling from the other side.
the sliver of moon was suspended in the sky like an add9 chord. hanging out there, being all gorgeous.
add9s are my thing. extending the chord, a little bit of tension, unresolved.
though i am often astounded by a full moon and i love all the phases tugging at those of us here on earth, it’s the sliver that always charms me. just this wink of a moon out there, inviting me, luring me to stop and stare, making me notice the stars gathered, like a moon fan club, all vying for my attention. like an add9.
we spent most of the weekend at home, save for a bit of celebration time friday evening and an impromptu sun-urged lakefront sunday afternoon. with home our rock, we reveled in it. we worked in and out around the house on this glorious weekend, alternating chores with the adirondack chairs placed strategically on the deck or the patio, depending. it’s only april, so this weekend was unexpected, its weather a winky-moon-add9 gift.
and walking down the driveway under the night sky – a clear night in the ‘hood – heading into the backyard, right by the ghetto fence, right before we turned, i looked up. the moon glanced down, tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “it’s all good,” and then it danced back into the galaxy.
and – like a shooting star – the add9 lingered, fading eventually into black.
you remember…when we were kids, we played it in a circle. sitting cross-legged. on the floor. like right after duck-duck-goose.
it started with one little girl or boy leaning over to the next and whispering something in that child’s ear. that child whispered in the next ear and that next ear whispered in the next ear and the next and so on…until it came around to the end of the circle.
the child at the end of the circle would then state what he or she heard – whispered to them.
and it was inevitably always completely different from how it started. and everyone would giggle and giggle about how funny it was that this tiny message would be so misconstrued – so distorted – by the end of the circle game. it became a tiny beehive of misinformation.
i recently learned that adults play this too. only it is not with the innocence of children in a cross-legged circle. it is not a game of giggles. it is, however, played in a beehive.
and instead of lighthearted buzzy laughter, it is an effort with meanness and agenda at its core. it takes information that hasn’t been fact-checked or questioned or even properly considered and passes it on. and one person passes it to thirteen people who pass it to thirteen people who pass it to thirteen people and voila! the real-real has been warped beyond repair and the telephone “game” has taken on an air of righteous targeting, the spirit of nasty, baseless and malicious. this now-swiss-cheese-story is punctuated with lies and innuendo and is passed on and on and on – with no thought or respect to truth, no thought or respect for the target.
it’s a far cry from cross-legged giggling children on the floor.
if you are averse to talking about cleavage, you should stop here.
because this lens…standing near the east windows of the milwaukee art museum…granted the lake cleavage…something i am – thanks to inheriting more genes from my dad than from my mom – unfamiliar with.
in a cleavage world it is tough to be a non-cleavage girl. not being endowed cuts in so many ways.
i clung onto the cleavage i had – for like five minutes – when i had my babies and was nursing, though i doubt it even counts as a nursing mom. still…i thought, “cleavage! wowza!” but it didn’t stick around. as soon as they were weaned, my cleavage was snatched from me. voila! back to none.
i’m not sure if the universe has a sense of humor about these things. i mean, who doles out the cleavage? and, here’s another important and relevant point: i must say, our society has a thing about it – cleavage, that is…not so much the universe – and bra companies like victoria’s secret grant the world’s best bras – with names and adjectives like “wicked” and “bombshell”, “miracle” and “fantasy” and “sexy illusions” – to people who “have it”. causing things like the day i cried in v’s secret. (read that glorious tale here.) it’s not a fair world out there.
so, it was a given i would walk up to the round lens on the east side of the museum, gaze out at lake michigan and see cleavage. for heaven’s sake!
i looked at david and told him, “look, even the lake has cleavage!!!”
he gazed back, weighing his response carefully. very carefully.
“ahhh, but it’s not a cutie-patootie like you!” he suavely replied.
uh-huh.
a cutie-patootie.
in this american society bent on what-we-are-shaped-like, i don’t think that’ll get me far.
and somehow, the universe knew and the snow began to fall.
and everything became quiet and peaceful. all forward movement ceased. we sat in the pause.
this fermata was certainly needed. we had been feverishly working, working. emotions were high and our energy was almost depleted. but then the snow came.
though spring had made an appearance and our garden – peeking out – was circumspect about the snowfall, we welcomed its hush. every flake that fell received thanks from us. and it kept falling.
our fermata in the snow granted us a bit of rest, a bit of perspective. we took deep breaths and moved slowly through our day. we gazed out the window and watched as the snow covered all – everything – in a blanket of white. it erased all the writing on the page. it shushed the noise in our busy heads. it lent ease to our weary minds and hearts. it took the astonishing – disheartening – events of the week and buried them under inches of snow. it cleared the ugly like the swoosh of lifting cellophane on a magic slate.
and when the swirl slowed a bit and i stood on the deck – giant flakes gently falling – gazing out at the pristine world surrounding us, i realized that was pretty much all that mattered. we had been granted time. time to consider and rejuvenate, time to reflect, time to clean off the shields we held so tightly – the ones that protected us. time to grasp onto snowflakes – quickly melting – and realize – once again – that life is just too short.
the magic wand – infused by the sun – stood tall in the reeds. if only i could pluck it out and take it with, still full of its magic, still glowing, i thought.
it was a brilliant day. the sky blue-blue, the air crisp, the trail ready for us, quiet, winding. we pass by marshes and bogs and woods – the hoofprints of deer preceding us, crossing the way from safe-place to water source.
and then the magic wand glimmered and reached out, tapping me on the head, bestowing glimmer magic, begging the question: and what will you do with this?
i carried the glimmer as we hiked. it was quite like carrying a toddler – full of energy and zeal, ready to get down out of my arms and run, run, run. the glimmer knew that it had work to do and there is no time to spare. for the power to light dark places is not to be underestimated, the ability to drop a spark into ash is not to be underplayed. the glimmer was anxious and excited, both.
and yet, the magic wand knows this: that relighting the dark and touching the grief of flame doused by others, the pain of trauma caused by others is not easy. dark cannot be readily relit if there are only shadows and no room for light. grief cannot be easily eased if there is no corner of the heart untouched by it. pain cannot be addressed without balm to the wound.
the glimmerwand was trembling at the end of the trail, still held in my arms. i wanted to hold onto it, to believe it would be that simple.
but the wand knew better. like the extended finger of ET the extra-terrestrial, it touched the center of my chest, through down vest and thick thermal and baselayer shirt, directly to my heart.
and it told me it would always be there – this light from the sun. it would wait and wait. and it would be with me – with me – diffusing fear, enlivening exhaustion. and i could reach down and touch it any time, this glimmer, and it would warm me up from inside out.
the tulip was exquisite. grand and graceful and svelte and without wrinkle. it was stunning – even in its never-blooming. and then…a few days went by. days, in the lives of tulips-in-vases, are years, decades in the lives of humans, i suspect. it held on for many of those days, petals smooth and tightly wound in its bud. and then.
we glanced at it – this vase of flowers on the table – pale pink that had kept us company, had given us pause.
and there, in the place where there had been a tulip, was an orchid.
now, you might argue, that’s not an orchid!
but i would counter that with this: if a tulip – in its next phase – wishes to look somehow like an orchid, wishes to open its petals in an orchid-like ballet – who are we to question it? must the tulip mimic the orchid perfectly? or is the nod to orchid, the bow to that maestro enough?
the orchid, tulip, dandelion theory and study … a categorization of life. are we smack-dab in orchid: highly sensitive, beautiful flowers that need very particular environments to thrive? are we firmly entrenched in dandelion: low-sensitivity, hardy, resilient, adaptable, which can grow virtually anywhere? or are we nestled in tulip: which falls somewhere between the two extremes of the sensitivity scale?
yet i wonder. do we cross over? do we linger in the liminal space between flowers? do we stretch our limbs to touch orchid? do we relax to be dandelions in the breeze?
maybe this tulip wanted a moment to be seen almost as an orchid, to feel almost like an orchid, to experience orchid.
or – maybe – this tulip was part orchid all along.
and i wonder…what i will be in the next phase of life.
reverse threading 