the shaggy manes clustered in front of the stage. it was a crowded mosh pit and there was no allowance for height. they were all just smushed in there, trying to see in-between pogo-ing to the music.
i couldn’t tell who the artist was. i was simply watching the audience reaction. it was clear to me that this was big. the artist had drawn a large crowd and all the shaggy manes were jazzed to be there. with rapt attention, they engaged in the concert, though all i could hear was silence. they were still there when i left, still standing, still moshing.
we create – paint, draw, compose, write, mold clay, cartoon, dance, act – for the shaggy manes in the world who wish to engage in our art form and, also, for the shaggy manes in the world who do not. we are noisy. we are silent. whether they walk away, stand quietly or pogo-mosh is not up to us. it is only up to us to put it out there. after that, we have no control. no machinations can force our work to resonate with a shaggy mane.
and as our work floats about in the universe – gaining or losing momentum, either – we trust that following the imperative is what we can do, what we must do.
and i am reminded – time and again – even if one shaggy mane gets it – one shaggy mane is moved – one shaggy mane is changed, even for a moment – then i have done my work.
“to so much of the world, solitude is strange.” (anna quindlen)
i always thought i was an extrovert. i enjoy people and social gatherings of all sorts. back a ways had someone asked me if i was an introvert or an extrovert (or the middle-of-the-road-ish ambivert), i likely would have answered “extrovert”. but then…
then i realized that the true way i rejuvenate, the actual place i go to in order to find calm, is inside, into my own space. it hadn’t occurred to me in all my extroversion that i always sought quiet, calm, peaceful in order to re-enter the fray.
in recent times i have been digging through the basement and the attic, opening bins and boxes with journals and composition books, finding diaries and poems, reflections and no-melody-song-lyrics. some of these were written in a tree just outside my growing-up bedroom window. some of these were written in a tiny basement apartment with wallpaper that looked like red brick. some of these were written in a converted garage and some in a new home in the sun. they are decades old. and they make it clear that i have always sorted to a place of quiet to recharge, to reflect, to express.
this photograph is one of my recent favorites. its bare minimalism speaks to me. one leaf, alone.
artists, sensitive to the ambient, the nuance, the emotional, resonate with everything around them, vibrations conscious and unconscious. individually, in the context of our medium, we ask and answer the questions that pummel our hearts, a call and response to beauty and understanding. and then, the leaf.
the one leaf, alone, stood out. red against the camel-taupe-tan of the trail. i stopped.
if there is no other photograph in all my photographs that speaks to the uniqueness, the singularity, identity, the one-ness of humankind, then this might be the one.
though none of us exist in a vacuum – and the spectrum of introvert and extrovert stretches like a red rock canyon – each of us is – at our core – one leaf, alone. there is a distinct simplicity in that.
every vein of this leaf – xylem and phloem cells – transporting nutrients to each part of it for photosynthesis to occur. it’s truly a miracle. sacred. ancient.
the sun was shining through the leaf propped up on the trail. i imagine it floated down and landed with others and this particular one was the leaf left standing. it was luminous as we approached. and, in the moment of bending down and photographing it, i was struck by its uniqueness. one leaf – in a forest of leaves – beautiful, a part of the bigger story.
i stop often on the trail – any trail, every trail. there is always something to notice, something to wonder about, something that is glorious. we’re surrounded by opportunity of seeing. we’re granted the chance to revel in beauty. we are reminded to pay attention.
in a world where so much is fraught, where there is division and anger, agenda and disrespect of others, it is beauty – unexpected, simple, glowing – to remind us of the much bigger narrative and that we must remember to hold gently the miracle.
in the way that we don’t realize the impact our words have on someone else, pete’s words stay with me: “there are angels all around you.” i’m pretty sure he didn’t know how often i would shuffle over to his words, to hear them, savor them, be comforted by them one more time. even now, in the dimension where he soars his soul, he may have no idea what those six words would mean to me.
and the other day, hiking on our favorite trail, in the middle of the middle, i looked up to the sky. directly overhead, the angel wings were clear and i could distinctly hear, “there are angels all around you.”
in ways right now i am stepping back to step forward. it’s necessary. not funandgames, not frivolous, not indulgent, but necessary.
and i am reminded – we don’t stand alone. those-who-have-gone-before extend gossamer threads. those who are stalwart in our regular lives stand still and strong, rocks for when we are unsteady. there are those who are new – but mighty and sure – in our path with us.
and nature bent way down, furrowing her brow at her canvas. and then, after careful consideration, she took her paint pens to the swallowtail caterpillar and drew stripes – the lightest green, almost opalescent. thinking that wasn’t enough, she took out her most vibrant sunshine-yellow pen and polka-dotted in-between the stripes. she sat back and looked at her work, smiling. “yes,” she thought, “yes, this is right for the swallowtail.” she moved on to the other caterpillars waiting to get their colors.
it never ceases to amaze me what is quietly starring just in our backyard alone. when i opened the little gate to our potting stand, they took me by surprise. they stand out.
since i am a big fan of painting polka dots on rocks, i was instantly fond of the two caterpillars eating their way through the wild vegetation growing between the big flat rock-slabs on the ground. they made me think of children’s books and writing stories of two caterpillars out adventuring for the day, their obvious names “stripe” and “dot”.
i was careful not to disturb them as i tended the parsley and basil, snipping back the spindly ends. they stayed right there, not at all thrown off by my presence. i closed the gate and checked on them later. they had made little headway, maybe an inch or so. but caterpillars, so i surmise, are not in a hurry.
we think we are so brilliant, we humans. we study and research pantone matching systems and cmyk process charts. we bring home paint and fabric swatches. we mix paints on palettes thick with color.
and nature giggles – glancing at her caterpillars and butterflies, flowers and trees, canyons and mountains, sky and prairies, oceans and fishes, birds and rainbows and sunrises – knowing she will always have the upper hand. it comes naturally to her.
and i ponder the reverse. what if E.T. was from earth and was somehow left behind on some other planet with living and breathing beings? would the earth-alien be as wistful about leaving earth behind? would the earth-alien be anxious to go back, to return to earth? what special powers would the earth-alien reveal on the new planet? how would the earth-alien respond to this different place, these different beings?
the thing about the movie E.T. is that it left us with a heartened view of what an extra-terrestrial might bring, the connections an extra-terrestrial might find, might form. it was a feel-good, cry-at-the-end movie and there is probably not one of us who viewed the movie who cannot hear E.T. saying, “E.T. phone home” or his parting words, “i’ll be right here” in our memory bank.
but what about the reverse?
what would a contemporary earth-being bring to another planet? would it be a sense of camaraderie or a dedication to division? would it be a symbiotic working-together or over-indulged competition, lines drawn in other-planet-dust? would it be open-hearted empathy or apathetic closed-mindedness? would it be an attitude of every-one-for-themselves? would there be any tenderness, any gentleness, healing mindfulness or would the attitude be haughty and mean-spirited?
if we didn’t get to cherry-pick the person who was sent to this other planet, how likely is it that the other-planet-beings would be glad that person showed up, to welcome them with warm hospitality, to sit and try to communicate, try to understand each other?
the spaceship flower on the side of the trail sent my imagination off and running.
but it made me also wonder this: if we would – indeed – want to carefully-as-possible pick an earth-being that might represent humankind to another planet’s beings – making sure that this earth-being would bring all the best qualities of humanness, the most nurturing, cooperative, collaborative, forthright, most loving, and all-embracing traits and behaviors, wouldn’t we want the same as the leader of our own country?
E.T. was hiding in the bushes under the spaceship flower. he glanced up at me and whispered, “scared here. wanna go home.”
i handed him the flower and off he disappeared, leaving us all behind to think carefully about what we wish for in humankind on this good planet earth.
it was torrential. for hours. we didn’t know it, but we weren’t the only ones having issues. all over our town, there was flooding. streets, houses, basements, the water was incessant and drainage wasn’t keeping up.
it’s not like we don’t need rain. we do. but the intense downpours aren’t helpful. residents ended up without power, with too much water and without water (ironically).
this is a time of intensity. it seems that every weather system, every environmental concern, brings an amped-up version of itself. it’s not just a little windy. it’s a derecho. it’s not just a bit dry. it’s on fire. it’s not just a soft rain. it’s a deluge. it’s not just a storm. it’s historic. it’s not just endangered. it’s extinction.
and we’re not the only ones.
right after we chose this image for our blogposts, i started humming lowen and navarro’s “if i was the rain“, an utterly debilitatingly beautiful song.
and so i think about how it would be – to be the rain.
“if i was the rain… i’d fall between the fireflies; i’d never dampen any light.”
yes. how i’d be careful not to dim the brilliance of others.
“i’d strike a chord within each heart, wherever they were torn apart. and if that helped them heal themselves, maybe we’d find out where forgiveness starts.”
yes. how i’d be aware of washing away old hurts, bringing a flowing river to all.
“if i was the rain, i’d choose forever to remain. i’d add a sparkle to the night and marvel at the morning bright.”
yes. how ever-present, a single drop of rain. ever-mindful of vast goodness, of perspective, of eternal gratitude.
“if i was the rain i’d bless each blossom to unfold and i’d turn each one of them to gold.”
yes. how to feed every last thing with the best nourishment, water to grow, dreams to flourish. nurturing. giving to. not taking from.
“if i was the rain. if i was the rain.”
but i’m not. and there are changes happening. and the weather is intensifying. and we – as humans on this good earth – have choices to make.
the things we will decide will affect the rain. and the rain will affect us.
and we’re not the only ones.
“when we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” (john muir)
and then, eric lowen performed it one last time, “if i was the rain, if i was the rain.”
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.
though we had looked at the schedule of events, we didn’t make any plans to go to ravinia. so it was completely spontaneous.
it had been a helluh week and the weather had broken…suddenly an evening forecast with 70 degrees and clear. we looked at each other – two mighty frugal artists – and jumped in.
bought the tickets online and started to pack the picnic bag – a tiny charcuterie table with wineglass holders, a cooler section for all the goodies. cheese, olives, bing cherries, watermelon, crackers, tabbouleh, a bottle of apothic, cloth napkins, corkscrew, forks and spoons. a couple blankets in a tote bag and our two unmatched bagchairs and we were ready. i ran back in to get a jelly jar and a couple tealights.
took the backroads down and – since i haven’t been there in like at least 15 years – asked siri to take us to parking. siri didn’t bother asking us if we were ravinia donors – which we aren’t – so she directed us to the wrong parking lot. we followed the other non-donors to the highland park metra station to hop on a shuttle bus that took us to the park. phew. a bit of a rigamarole, but oh so worth it.
it was while we were spreading our blankets and setting up our site under the trees and speakers we could hear the first strains of the chicago symphony orchestra. the music of carole king, carly simon and joni mitchell floated over us as we settled in, the cool evening falling around us.
it was a good thing. we had hit critical mass. too many stresses and not enough play, not enough stretching, not enough out-getting. we walked the park, passing more elaborate setups than our own, groups of friends talking, laughing, eating, listening. we stood at the pavilion and watched the orchestra, feeling it rise and fall close up. there is something about an orchestra under the stars that is breathtaking, like the way it is supposed to be. it was balm for the weary, something to sink into.
the guy on the path nearby was singing oh-so-out-of-tune as he passed by, the strains of carole king’s you’ve got a friend loudly broadcast as he walked with large arm gestures and a little bit of dance. he was loving it. you could tell.
and so were we. the cso is wise. like many symphony orchestras around the country, it is finding its audiences shrinking. so it’s trying to regain relevance. playing recognizable vintage pop music – by women – with singers, the evening spoke to thousands of people who came, blanket or bagchair sat, charcuteried, sang along. you could feel a thread of commonality, a gentleness that seemed like kindness – people were smiling.
it was good for our souls. under a big waxing gibbous moon and the cool blanket of breezes, we took deep breaths. it doesn’t take much. but it begs being attended to. being out and about, in the presence of fine musicians and an appreciative audience, we were fed. an artist date. so needed.
from a distance they are paintbrushes, sporadically appearing in the meadow, catching plumes of downy fluff that spread like thick contrails, and, catching the wind, fly off. i can imagine plucking one of these paintbrushes, dipping it in paint, touching it to canvas, light strokes of color.
i have some paintbrushes downstairs. they are wood and some kind of fiber, inexpensive brushes i purchased when i was painting the canvas for the hall and the canvases for the living room. i actually didn’t use them. instead, i used a couple of housepaint brushes and, in alignment with that, house paint. latex. in cans. there was nothing about my painting that would be called “fine” – it was big strokes, big spattering, big expression. big brushes to big canvas. i saved the wooden brushes and, even now, haven’t yet used them, though recently bought a few small 8×8 inch canvas boards. i’m not sure why yet.
on the other hand, david cherishes his paintbrushes and knows exactly why to use each of them. his careful hand applying just the right amount of paint, brush to canvas, shaping the narrative of the painting. he recently bought a big roll of canvas. cutting off a five foot square, he painted a replica of a previous painting he had done, a piece that someone wanted but that he had painted for me. it was an amazing process to witness, as he brought the same energy, the same freedom of movement, the same emotion to this emerging painting. and suddenly, a month of hours-each-day later, it was complete. unfettered II had a destination and we shipped it off, like a short-term child he carefully tended and then let go.
one of our youtube addictions is to a channel of a man named martijn doolaard, a dutchman who is restoring two stone buildings in the italian alps. slowly, deliberately, patiently – with no expectation, no judgement, no apparent worry – martijn painstakingly goes about this restoration, working from sun-up to sundown, cooking himself dinners that look as beautiful as his vista and relaxing by editing hours of video or by painting. his brushes and his oils are precise. with brush to canvas, he paints landscapes of his surroundings, the environment of peace he has created, his studio the mountainside and sky.
i wonder who will pluck these thistlebrushes. i wonder what medium they will use to paint, upon what canvas they will work. what strokes will be applied to the prickly leaves, the blossoming flowers, the unrealized buds, the underbrush dying from eradication? what colors will be mixed to mimic the rising sun, the blur of a hawk on the wing, the flat bill of the white crane, the camouflage shell of the turtle?
nature has already brought its best in this meadow, in this forest, its brushes to canvas. it has brought its best at the line of surf of the ocean, upon the summit of high mountains, in the deepest of canyonlands, in the setting sun on red rock. it has brought its best in the faces of those we love, those who love us. it has brought its best in the perfection of creatures – domestic and wild.
reverse threading 