daisies were on my shopping list. our daughter was coming into town and i wanted some fresh flowers on our table and in her room. so, daisies are our go-to.
but the pink tulips caught my eye. long slender stems and the palest pink buds, i could feel my whole body slow down gazing at them.
every time i look at them it feels the same way.
the buds never opened. yet, the tulips are still proudly standing tall, ten days later. it is an image of potential. a visceral right-in-front-of-us portrayal of stately beauty. or maybe it’s an image of choice – of taking a different road. these tulips are stunning. and it is not in their blossoming open.
both of us artists, i can tell you there are many, many unopened buds. they stack in corners and in notebooks, in the recesses of our minds, on our laptops. they are pale pink and soft. they are deep-red and fiery. they wait for their moment.
and some buds don’t open. i read those buds may have faced a particularly cold winter, or had too much — or too little — exposure to heat and sunlight. i’d add that they may have had naysayers naysaying at them. they may be competing for sun with other buds, other flowers, other ideas.
or maybe they just like it that way. as buds. standing tall and quiet, emanating peace and tranquility.
every time i have looked at these pink tulips i have thought about their color. i have imagined it on a wall – the palest pink – with white crown moldings and trim. never having had a pink wall, i’ve wondered about how it might feel to be in such a room. i’ve wondered if it might feel the way it feels gazing at these buds.
i’m cheering our tulips on for another few days, maybe even another week. i want to keep them around. they are making me breathe differently. they are giving me pause. they are making me imagine.
and maybe that’s the point. it’s not always about the blossom.
for a few days – just a few, mind you – wisconsin had a tad bit of spring.
it was early as all heck, but it was pretty nice and, i must say, it made us yearn for r-e-a-l spring.
tonight – after we all get through the tornado watches and warnings – the temperature will drop fast and it will snow in the ‘morrow. que sera sera.
in the meanwhile, we watched for the truly lovely signs. the confused crocuses, the birds in the morning light, the afternoon sun on the wall of our neighbor’s garage. and, for a couple of days, we sat outside as we could, reveling in untimely weather.
we will have an attitude check tonight and tomorrow morning as we greet a day with a feels-like of about 65 degrees less than today.
but this is wisconsin. and if you decide to live here you must go with the flow.
we are writing these posts late in the day – unusual for us. i look out the window at a maybe-little-foreboding sky. we hope for the violent storms to dissipate and we prepare for winter to re-arrive.
there are no shadows on the brick wall now. it’s all becoming a little monochromatic grey out there.
and i think that – though i thoroughly enjoyed the tilt toward spring, the nod of warmth and rejuvenation – i might have rathered a normal trajectory from winter to spring…something that wouldn’t wreak havoc on people in its path, something that didn’t include tornado sirens or talk-talk of quarter-plus-size hail.
but i suppose that life is just not like that.
instead, it is all a surprise and never truly predictable. nothing to take for granted.
and i’m ready to retreat to the basement. just in case.
they are everywhere. if you are open to them. hearts just sort of show up. it’s our job to notice them.
this one is simply a dogga-fuzz on the quilt. but it’s clearly a heart and i had to take a picture of it before dogdog rolled over and it disappeared forever. a simple symbol. a breath of warm air.
she bought a heart clock in a sweet antique boutique up north a bit. my dear friend is a collector of hearts and this one – well, it was obvious. a small red heart clock with sweetly-fonted numbers and a tiny heart at the end of the hour hand. it’s her. and i really love that about her. she surrounds herself with hearts and exudes warmth just the way you’d anticipate from someone who has hearts all around her.
i don’t have nearly the number of hearts she has, but i have a zillion photographs of hearts. naturally occurring as puddles or stones or leaves. purposely created – hearts in sand, in snow, painted on rocks.
it doesn’t take much to see them. but to stop all action and photograph them is a commitment.
yet, every time i do – stop traffic – stop all movement – stop our hike – stop the dog from rolling over – i feel like the universe smiles. and one more time i am reminded of love. every kind of love, every display of love, every bit of love that surrounds me.
maybe that’s why i notice hearts all the time. to remember just that.
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i know this frame well. i have looked out – at the rest – through this tree’s strong curved limbs for thirty-five years now.
because i am watching this beloved and known tree age and weaken a bit, i suppose the city may someday choose to take it down. and that day – well, i will likely weep. i try to remember to thank the tree often now, in case it happens that we come home one day – after errands or a hike or a trip – and the trucks will have already come and gone. and the front elevation of our home will never look the same again. in the meanwhile, i take photographs of it – in the sun, in the snow, in ice, in early bud, in leaf, in the rich colors of fall, and in deep fog.
the fog had rolled in this night. we live close to the lake and this winter has brought more fog than snow, more mist than ice. i grab my phone and snap a few pictures of this shape i know so well.
in our living room is a piece of this tree. still. after the whole water-main-front-yard thing of 2021 we dragged a giant branch in to use as our christmas tree. wrapped in lights, it warms the space. we’ve never taken it down. i suppose it will stay there a while longer. likely a long while.
foresty forest lives a van life based in canada. he also travels throughout the western united states, hiking with his insanely capable jack russell terrier rocko. he was in british columbia – way out there – and his drone revealed acres and acres of downed tree limbs. though it looked like giant avalanches had come through, it was actually the end result of big logging. i stared at the screen, feeling the tug of the trees. there is somehow a balance, i guess, of trees we need and trees we leave standing. and so we choose reforestation for a memorial gift; we honor the absolute and pressing need to replant.
it’s all a matter of balance. it’s a matter of knowledge and responsibility, of paying it forward or paying it back to this good earth that has provided for us.
if the city takes down this tree that has literally framed my life for over three decades they will offer an opportunity to plant another. we will choose carefully, knowing that it will likely outlive us, knowing i would like for whatever tree stands in that very spot to be as impactful for the next and the next as ours has been for me, for us.
the fog envelops the tree and i photograph its shape. it’s not perfect anymore, but it has stood the test of time and it has rich history. there are limbs that have fallen from wind and ice, limbs that have been knocked down by large equipment, limbs that have rotted out.
but it is truly beautiful. and it stands proud, knowing.
it can’t be easy to be the lone tree in a big, big farmfield. the wind will batter you. the sun will parch you. the snow and ice will pile next to your trunk and bend your limbs down low. the rain will pummel you. you will be tested and you must be steadfast. your very presence may be questioned; it would be easier to plow straight lines than to plow around you.
but consider this: the birds will flock to you. any creatures needing shade or shelter will curl up under your canopy. you will exhale clean oxygen. and wildflowers and grasses will grow at your base. you will interrupt the horizon line with your very beautiful tree shape. you will give visual perspective to the vast fields.
and so you stand there – alone. ready to greet the next day and the next. despite it all.
you know it would be easier if there were other trees standing with you – perhaps a simple stand of trees or maybe a small woods or forest. you know it would be easier if there were even just one other bush or plant holding vigil with you in the big field. you know it would be easier if the west winds would not assail you, you with nothing to block their assault.
and even if the elements push on you, if the farmer ponders your value, if the aloneness feels void of hope, you keep standing.
because you know that you are a tree and that your truth matters and that your presence counts.
in another life i am a potter. i have multiple aprons caked with clay and stained with glaze. i have a potter’s wheel and a giant old table in a big barn that looks out over a lake and mountains, the sun streaming in during late afternoon happy hour siesta-sans-sleep time. and the pots i throw don’t collapse in on themselves.
there is something so very visceral about throwing pots – sitting on a stool, wheel in front of you, a chunk of clay – prepared – kneaded, wedged, ready. my hands are sensitive and the texture is smooth, not sticky. my foot starts the wheel and i form a circle with my hands. and the sun streams in, a gentle breeze through the barn doors, the soundtrack from the movie ghost playing in the background, patrick swayze moving closer. eh! the dream sequence stops here.
i’ve mentioned my pottery successes before: a couple tealight or small trinket holders and one highly-valued dessert bowl. nothing like this stunning handleless wine cup, but maybe someday. rachel stevens – the potter – is clearly gifted, with a textural approach to applying glazes, transfers … like a collage of pottery elements melded into one piece. her spirit, her intention of the beautiful – both evident.
heidi gave us these vessels for our wedding and we treasure them. their earthiness reminds us to stay grounded and centered; their loveliness is a reminder of all that is art and beauty and goodness.
we don’t use these each time we sip wine. we have lovely stemware as well. but the days we do, i am back in the barn…surrounded by crystal singing bowls and potter’s wheels, old farm tables and swivel stools, the sun and a breeze streaming in, the mountains out there as i glance up. a girl can dream.
even upside-down i recognized it. a chunk of concrete – architectural salvage – signed and dated 1978 – it sat there, with an assortment of other stuff outside the antique shoppe – and called my name.
my sweet momma wanted to be an architect. she was way before her time, though. born in 1921, she loved applying her love of mathematics, but the world – i guess – wasn’t ready for her. i, too, love math. and i love design, though i haven’t had any formal training in it. but when a chunk of concrete – or any other item – calls my name, i stop and listen – at least for a moment. there is a conversation to be had.
because it was upside-down and weighs a ton, i asked d to turn it over. i made an instant decision…one, unlike most other purchases, that would have no second-guessing, no post-purchase regret. i wasn’t sure yet what we’d do with this concrete, but it was coming home with us (after some new-york-style price-negotiating).
it’s in our living room now, in case you are wondering. it serves as a side table to a chair and is the right place for our ipod sounddock. it’s perfect.
i was trying to explain – at the antique shoppe – to a couple people there how i try never to buy things to be used for what they are designed for. it’s my own rule of repurposing. it’s also pretty scrappy. now, now, that doesn’t mean a pillow isn’t used as a pillow or a chair as a chair, but old vintage coffee pots are our tea canisters and suitcases are our special boxes. tin displays photos with magnets. a door is a table. you get it.
for years, i rented offices at an historic building on the lakefront. a fantastic old building with high ceilings and wood floors, only cold running water on my floor, big old windows facing the lake. when they were doing some reno work on the building, there were piles by the big dumpsters: vintage window frames, rectangles of radiator grates, old signs. it was a salvage dream. i miss those offices, but as i look around our home, the old window frames are comforting and remind me of days spent chasing concerts, wholesale accounts and mice.
the farm table in our sitting room holds a beloved heart leaf philodendron from my daughter. the old repainted chiffarobe in my studio holds photographs of my parents. ”sisu” is painted on a piece of old wood, created by my son. there are two old rocking chairs in david’s studio: mine and his…both full of stories of long ago.
so the chunk of concrete didn’t really surprise him. i thought for sure – as we pulled in – that he noticed it too. but he hadn’t. so i pulled him over to it, certain he, too, would love it. and he did. most of the time it doesn’t take much to amuse us.
we stood at the doorway from the hall to the living room, admiring our find. we – truly – couldn’t have liked it more. artifacts from time gone past – things that might sit out by the dumpster or in the weather in the parking lot – reclamation of interesting pieces – even roughhewn – loved in our home. we tie new narrative to these, like the doublebows on the boots we wear…a smidge of warmth, of security, of new use, another layer – this doublebow – the old stories and the new stories. we are certain of their place in our home.
sometimes i wonder why i am so attracted to peeling paint, wobbly-legged tables, old windows and doors.
and sometimes i don’t.
“every day we reconstruct ourselves out of the salvage of our yesterdays…”(james sallis)
in most rehearsals, i would remind the choir that their smile could be heard. there is a major difference to the timbre of voice brought forward with or sans smile. the same is true with speaking; even when you are not seen, the difference in tone is distinguishable.
it’s the season of the christmas cantata – a major work of multiple pieces with various voicings, instrumental lines, accompaniment and narration – closer to an hour in length. i’m writing this on the sunday morning that was usually chosen as the day of performance – the second sunday in december. i can’t even begin to remember how many cantatas i’ve directed – and written and arranged – through my decades as a minister of music. just recently a facebook memory came up – it was my post thanking the choir and worship band at a church where we had just performed such a work. the creation of narrative and song is exhilarating – for both director and participants – and everything drives to the downbeat. there is a glow that emanates from such a group – these people who have diligently prepared a musical piece of larger extent – and the camaraderie that weaves its way through – it is joy.
it’s been a few years now since i have directed a cantata. i’m guessing it’s a few years since many of the people who participated have sung or played a cantata. not every minister of music or choir director is up to it and some choose other programming. while you are preparing weekly anthems for sharing in service you are concurrently rehearsing this large work, so it takes time and energy, a compositional spirit, an innate ability to discern cantatas of value, ingenuity, the ability to rearrange on the fly, the belief in showcasing your choir – as a choir – accommodating any ability level, the recognition that simplicity is potent, much flexibility and humor, meticulous planning and true dedication. it is knowing as a conductor – in the moment after the downbeat – that you will merely guide this integrated group of singers and musicians through this visceral experience of purity. yours is a backseat to the magic – this is not your microphone. it is an undertaking not for the meek.
to say that i miss cantata-day would be understating. the gift of music is to make resonant that which is hard to see, that which is not tangible. the gift of music is to evoke powerful imagery and to open emotions tucked away. the gift of music is to bring forward beauty and the magnificence of producing something together. the gift of music is to offer just that – the gift of music. impactful, moving, music has the ability to change souls.
we pass the leaf on the trail – so very obviously lips curled in a smile. i think about all the times i have urged a singer to smile, all the times i have listened to the difference between smiling and not smiling – like the difference between the keys of d minor and e minor. vast.
and right now – as i write this – i wonder how many choirs are gathered on chancels, singing their hearts out, smiling inside and out.
it was the color that stopped us. we have walked this route for years. the other day – wind blowing off the lake, waves crashing over the rocks, rain falling intermittently – we noticed the color.
the east side of the trees was iridescent. cobalt blue and teal green mixed in with the rich color of its bark. we stood in front of the trees, studying the mix of color, the tooth, the randomness. later, it took some research to discover what might – just might – be the reason for these colors: amaurodon viridis – a fungus. if that is true, we don’t know what that means for these trees. both are stricken on the side that faces the lake – the side that takes the pummeling of the wind in lake-effect storms. we’d imagine that side of the tree is decidedly moister than the side facing the afternoon sun. but – at best – even with a bit of research – we are making it all up. we aren’t tree experts or even tree knowledgers. we are, however, tree lovers. and we are tree noticers.
it did make me think of october days we spent in breckenridge, colorado. days where the town took tree-safe paint and designed an art installation on the aspens. with biodegradable water soluble colorant, social and environmental artist konstantin dimopoulos inspired the painting of the trunks of aspens blue-blue-blue drawing attention to them – stunning yellow leaves in fall against this blue – impossible to not notice – an effort to point to the importance of trees to the planet and the devastation of global deforestation. it was breathtaking.
the work of an artist is to ask questions, to prompt thought, to nudge and cause both comfort and discomfort, perhaps to elicit change. the work of an artist is not to take the easy pre-cut path. the work of an artist is to linger in not-knowing, in seeking. the work of an artist is to notice, to pay attention, to educe the notice of others, to stir up paying attention. to encourage stillness and wild interaction, both.
the trees got us to stop. and as we stood and noticed and wondered, they stood tall, knowing they had done their job.
reverse threading 