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.
behind the curtain and between stage-left and stage-right wings, the action is paused and ready. umbel stalks on point, waiting to explode into clusters of tiny white flowers, delicate leaves opening, lacy, inviting the show to go on.
it’s spectacular – this performance of nature.
queen anne’s lace – i first learned of this wildflower from my dear friend linda – can be confused with other plants. bishop’s flower, wild parsley and hemlock taunt many from the meadow and one must be careful to realize that their performance piece is not the same – they are not edible – like this wild carrot of queen anne’s lace – and, in fact, they are toxic. the meadow stage offers up options but only carrots are carrots.
for those who love the stage in any capacity, there is a responsibility, things one must remember.
i knew from the beginning that the stage was not about me, not about what it could bring me. instead, the stage is about what i can bring to the audience. i have played to a handful of people; i have played to tens of thousands of people. i always knew it was simply my job to offer my music, stories, lyrics, song, to put it out there. to be absolutely present – sharing the moment – my jeans stuck in my boot. to connect, to resonate, to move – though my expectation was not to be moved, were i to feel it connect, resonate, move, i, in turn, am profoundly moved.
to be off-stage for a longer period of time is taxing. there’s expendable energy stoking up, ready to burst off the apron, into the house. shimmering moments, illuminating the glow of faces seated, the warm cloud of laughter, the sighs of sinking in.
i have stood on the giant rocks of the john denver sanctuary, bowing. i have stood on the stump and the downed tree in the forest, bowing. i have danced on the deck, bowing. i have fist-microphoned in the kitchen, bowing.
i googled “what is the difference between an entertainer and an artist?” for i am often called an “entertainer” and, for some reason, that word rubs me wrong. surprisingly, an AI bot responded. “sage” wrote, “entertainment often focuses on providing a pleasurable or amusing experience for the audience, while art is more about expressing ideas, emotions or personal experiences. … entertainers focus on entertaining, while artists focus on expressing themselves through their art.”
sage’s answer indirectly implies a contrived reorganization, a pleasing-you approach. and while i have read audiences time and again, choosing direction of a concert – if possible – as i perform, on the fly, it is still with an intent to share, to impact, not to simply “amuse”.
i think it’s a matter of purity. or order. or intention. a combination of the three. plus gut. intuition. emotion. to bring. to touch. to move. to prompt questions. to elicit change. artistry. to lift up – suspending in midair – a piece of music, to let it soak up tiny jet streams that will carry it, to let it fall – as it might – onto the anyone or the anyones who is or are there – recipients of my good intention, from stage to audience.
hunger for the stage is real. it is pining for that connection, for the very reason i have composed.
one day the curtain rises – one day the delicate leaves drop – and i’m grateful to perform, piano, boom mic, wood under my feet – and the clusters of tiny white flowers explode into daylight.
our old door – leaning against the house on the back deck – is not high in the himalayas. it’s not at everest base camp or, for that matter, on any scaled summit. but, like the space in which our other prayer flags fly, our deck provides a place from which to release prayers and mantras into the wind, to hope for compassion, peace, strength, wisdom, and good will.
the cracked-paint white door leans against the white lapped vinyl siding of the house. walking sticks – mostly from mountain trails we have hiked – lean nearby.
our colorado prayer flags have faded and shredded to nearly invisible. i imagine many, many prayers blown far and wide, the wind pulling at the string on the northeast side of the house, a place of distinct breezes off the lake.
i decided to make our own. they do not have the words of prayers on them. they are not specific in a colorful palette. instead, they are black-and-white, save for one white-and-black flag. sewn of thin bandanas and seam tape, i was pretty excited to string them up.
and with them, as they are beginning to catch the breeze, as they begin to get tattered and worn and sunbleached, they will begin – just as the others – to send wishes of goodness and positive energy into the world.
we aren’t going to get all hung up about color or what is printed on the flags. for us, in these times, it’s all about the intention.
younger and he would have already figured out how to get his pride bandana off. but he’s ten today and he’s slowing down a bit, taking things in stride a little bit more, tolerantly allowing for message-filled bandanas and goofy headbands.
our dogga – today – will pretty much dictate what we do on this noisy holiday. he – like so many other pooches – does not appreciate fireworks and it hurts us to see him confused and so bothered by them. we will likely spend time in the basement or succumb to putting the old air conditioner units in the windows – the first time in three years – and turning them on so there is less outside noise coming inside.
i’m not really sure why everyone has to have their own fireworks in their own yards. there are stunningly beautiful displays on the lakefront – up and down lake michigan. sitting on the rocks or at the park you can see them north and south. nevertheless, a whole bunch of neighbors and people in the ‘hood will insist on their own well before the fourth and well after, and a whole bunch of pets will be frightened.
dogdog at ten is different from our dogdog at two or four or six. these days, his wise eyes help us center, steer us away from disagreement, prevent us from a snarky word here or there. we try not to upset the dog. these days, he gets up a little slower, jumps down a little more tentatively, lets us love on him a little longer. we try not to forget we are aging with him.
it is possible that this – the undeniable love we have for our dogs and the desire we have for them to be happy – is a good reason to have them. the simplest pleasures, the slightest touches, a little bit of attention – lessons in relationship. ingredients for a happy dogga.
it’s our second fourth of july without our babycat. it’s the second fourth tripper has had without his babycat. although disturbed by the noise, they would buddy up. somehow, one would reassure the other, telepathically relaying words of comfort, soothing, “we got this”. we know he really misses b-cat. every morning he goes into the kitchen to lay with him – our angel-cat now – in their early-morning-after-breakfast tradition. he’s kept up the ritual. it tugs at us to see him there, in the exact place they would always nap together.
and so – on this holiday – this very noisy holiday – it is to the needs of our beloved dog we will turn. we’ll skip the hoopla, we’ll skip the bedlam at the lakefront, we’ll skip the jockeying for a spot on the grass in the park, we’ll skip the rocks where people set off crackers, we’ll skip the fireworks display.
because what really matters today is celebrating this aussie-dog’s birthday, his unconditional love and care for us, and what we can do to make his day a better day.
the owl feather lay on our trail. soft down curled at its base, it was striking against the dirt of our path. we stopped.
the trail has different rules. the point is never to hurry. it is never to walk without open eyes. it is never to pass by that which draws or beckons. instead, it is to take the time, to go slower, to see what is there – in all its mysterious beauty. and, though this is the most familiar of our trails, there is not a time we have hiked it that we have not seen something new, something informative, something so beautiful – even in its simplicity – that we had to stop and photograph it.
it IS how the world is, she said. it exists just the same way as the dark exists. we were talking about goodness, the presence of goodness, the pay-it-forward of goodness. i was wistfully talking about a world that valued goodness, that lingered in kindness, that held beauty in gratitude, that was full of light and hope and the love of one another. her words stopped me.
it does exist. and, yes, it exists the same way as all the dark in the world exists. it’s a profound thought.
we were walking out to big red to go take a hike. a beautiful black crow feather lay waiting on the driveway.
next to littlebabyscion was a smaller feather, perhaps one from a robin that sang the sun up earlier in the day.
to read about owl feathers and crow feathers and robin feathers, one finds a plethora of information, some seemingly opposite in meaning. but the one thing that all feathers seem to represent across the board is that there are angels with you, there is a connection to the spiritual world.
whatever you perceive that to be, it would seem that a connection to the comfort and love of those who passed before or the eternal wisdom, the resilience, the goodness of the universe would be a good thing.
i am a hardware store junkie. there’s a certain joie de vivre found in the midst of an ace, maybe even – on their best days – in a lowes or a home depot. but ace hardware. that’s the stuff. the smell of fertilizer assails you upon entry and you are transported to another place – a magical place – where you could wander for long periods of time, gazing at tools, watering cans, market umbrellas, weber grill accessories, birdfeeders, alligator extendo-backscratchers, benjamin moore paint chips, no-idea-what-they-are-but-nonetheless-fascinating-thingamajigs. magical. and, in that place, it’s just too easy for two artists to dream.
they are having a big sale on backyard umbrellas. the kind you can tilt. perfect for a patio space that begs the reading of a book while lounging on an adirondack chair. we are pondering. brick red seems like a great punctuation in our verdant yard. but then, that green…a celebration of life. at least i can toss out the yellow, but the beige…well, it’s the color of the deck. so who knows. and then, there’s the budget. in the meanwhile, the rainbow of market umbrellas tempt us. joy in a hardware store. and that rainbow…
because everything nowadays seems to have a political affiliation, i just did a little research. read up on the big three – home depot, lowes, menards. read some articles about ace, thankfully, mostly privately owned. what i read just now – easily just skimming the surface of articles thus far – was somewhat eye-opening and will now dictate where i shop. lurid accusations of founders, large dark money contributions to right-wing nationalist groups, support of the sale of items touting anti-democracy – i’m wondering what all this has to do with power drills, lawn seed, building lumber, nails and hummingbird swings.
as ever, i am breathless from reading about the stance of powerful billionaires hungry for more, ensconced in agenda, dedicated to power and control in every arena. i want to believe that store managers are supported and encouraged, not threatened or belittled. i want to believe that these powerful founders – men – truly uphold the equality of women or of any gender identity, of races other than their own, of religions other than their own, of the freedom to learn in this country without banning crucial historic details, without censorship. i want to believe that hardware is hardware and that positioning and lobbying and not-so-veiled political blackmail has nothing to do with hammers and do-it-yourself in a country built on an experiment with liberty and justice for all.
i just want to believe in market umbrellas and the good ole hardware store.
i guess the allure is in the texture. rough-hewn, rusting bolts, galvanized metal. there is something about this that reminds me of the b-24 bombers my sweet poppo told me stories about. something about the rivets that make me think of his own WWII bomber – “boomerang betsy” – shot down, and the “strawberry bitch” bomber we visited at the national museum of the air force in dayton, ohio.
my dad and my brother spent great deals of time using their phenomenal mechanical skills. they brought a 1930 model A back to life, transformed a long island lighting company van into a camper, rebuilt engines, tinkered with vw bug after vw bug, and kept vehicles going. neither were mechanics specifically by trade, but when i was little and they were out in the garage or in the driveway working, i loved spending time watching them and maybe handing them a tool or two.
the other day we went to pick up littlebabyscion, who had had a new catalytic converter installed. not a small job, but a totally necessary one to pass emissions testing. we were glad to bring LBS home afterward, “pass” form in hand. tiny problem though – it was making a new sound. now, that can strike some ample fear into a person when the odometer reads 267,000 miles. but – having listened to this sweet little vehicle for 266,750 of its miles – i felt i could sort of pinpoint the type of noise it was. so we brought it back.
they put it up on a lift. this, in and of itself, doesn’t sound like a big deal until you consider the 267k miles, its 17 years of life and wisconsin’s love of salty roads in the winter. they g.e.n.t.l.y. put LBS on a lift. we were invited in to look underneath.
now – for me, this is a neato-keeno kind of thing! from underneath, the mechanic explained what we were looking at and – based on my mention of the type of sound it was making (like a clip holding the exhaust piping had come undone and was rattling) he found a weld that had failed. he installed a stainless strap and lowered LBS back to the ground. no more noise. well, no more of THAT noise. jokingly, he added, “you’re hired!” over his shoulder at me.
there’s something about rough-hewn galvanized sheet metal begging my attention.
and there IS something about more analog-type engines and their underworkings that really does fascinate me.
maybe it’s all the steel and rivets and bolts and strategizing and solving mysteries. if a, then b, analytical thinking, even syllogisms.
or maybe it’s really just because it conjures up all the times i sat gazing at my dad and my brother, the smell of grease and the look of old metal in all its glory.
were i to be on jeopardy – and were there to be a topic called “agriculture” – and were i forced to try and answer any question at all – $1000, $800, $600, $400 or even $200 – i would fail miserably. the tools of the trade are foreign to me, just as, i suppose, sheet music for the rachmaninoff piano concerto no.2 in c minor might befor the farmer skilled at using the farm implements. different languages entirely.
so, for us, sitting outside the iowa farmhouse, gazing around at the unfamiliar, it was both mysterious and magical. interesting textures and things with wheels had us guessing and googling. everything begged to be photographed. for us, the unfamiliar is novel and, through our eyes, doesn’t represent the hard work it actually stands for. instead, the wheel hay rake is flowers in the sky, metal petals reaching out from the center on thick metal stems connecting to the machine. the tractors and disc cultivators and harrows and silos – all unknown and a little exotic. it is easier to see beauty in that which is simply shape and texture than when it is the embodiment of the toil and worry each farmer faces each and every year.
i suppose that should make it easier for me to understand why others can generously send notes and email messages to me about my music, about how the piano piece or a song resonates with them, yet i – at this moment in time – see toil and worry. worry about how – in a new world – to put out new music. worry about how to sustain it all financially. worry about how – with a significantly-reduced wrist – my music may differ from what it has been. new crops, new agricultural costs, new limitations. what is that expression about perception? one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. that might be true also as – one man’s albatross is another man’s beauty.
yet, despite the decidedly different ways we perceive things out of our realm of familiarity, we are all spokes in the big wheel. we honor all the tools of our different trades, the languages, the expressions of work, the products of toil.
to be fascinated by another’s work is to appreciate it. to appreciate another’s work is to respect it. to respect another is to live together, under one sun … flowers in the sky.
*****
on this two artists tuesday, we’d like to make a clarification. i received a text asking me about what “buy me a coffee” meant. just as i was given to misunderstand this platform, i’m not sure we have done an adequate job of explaining it. so, please forgive any redundancy as i take a moment to clarify:
the arts don’t generally have the same avenues for payment as other professional routes, so there has been an effort for more crowdfunding types of options. both BuyMeACoffee and Patreon are platforms in which content creators can receive support from people who appreciate their work.
http://www.buymeacoffee.com is a casual way to support creators. when you “buy a cup of coffee” it transfers $5 per “cup” (minus a small percentage) directly to an account for the artist you have chosen to support. it is called a virtual tip jar because it is not a recurring payment – it is a one-time tip for something that has resonated with you. you can opt for 1, 3, 5 “cups of coffee” or any number you wish (in the square box) and the application will do the math. when i first encountered it on a site of wonderful thru-hikers we follow, i mistakenly thought it literally was sending them coffee – or – sending them money they needed to use for coffee-and-only-coffee. silly me. it is simply providing helpful funding – a lovely way for us to tell them “thank you” for inspiring us. a “cup of coffee” is a way to support them in any number of five dollar increments.
patreon (which we will have shortly) is an opportunity to subscribe to an artist’s work on a monthly, recurring basis. people who wish to support the arts have an ongoing and dedicated way to do this through patreon, choosing a monthly dollar amount. again, a small percentage is taken out and the rest is made available to your chosen artist(s).
either way, artists everywhere appreciate the generosity of those who take the time and the resources to help them keep doing their work in the world. all spokes in the big wheel.
that gratitude goes for us as well. we appreciate you and are grateful for your support of our work. you are flowers in our sky.
reverse threading 