you have to admit – the first set of stripes is way more interesting than the second. the first set. in the woods. the color combinations. all alive with hue and subtlety. the second set. static. no air. no depth. no variance.
this weekend, on a warm-day hike along the expanding des plaines river, the colors were spectacular. the blue-purple of the water late in the afternoon. the fresh-baby-grass-green of the small island across the river. sky blue, white clouds, golden sunlight. it wasn’t capture-able on film. you just had to stand there and breathe it in. stripes, patterns, shadows, delicate light, elusive dark.
by hiking often on the same trails, we can see the minor changes along the way. we take note of them, commenting on a felled tree or more water in a pond or a new nest high in some branches. there’s more mud, there are goslings, the daffodils are in full bloom, the groundcover is rich. the earth coming back out of fallow. winter’s rest is over; spring’s explosion has arrived.
for us, these winter-spring-summer-fall hikes are necessary. they allow us to see, outside of ourselves; they allow us to process good earth growth and change and color. for us, these hikes are like a security blanket. they soothe worries, sort problems, wrap gently around us.
with the sun not yet up over the farmlands, the hot air balloon lifted. we slowly sailed over fields and stands of trees, watching the world wake up. as the sun rose over the horizon, we could hear what was going on below us. we weren’t that high up and any conversation in backyards and barns, on patios and decks or driveways was easy to hear. we weren’t intentionally eavesdropping; you just can’t help but hear clearly up there in the wind. it’s an amazing vantage point floating low in the sky, sharing the sunrise with the earth, an endless horizon. a little wary, i had asked the pilot if he had any anti-motion apothecary suggestions. he responded by telling me that none are needed, that you are “part of the wind.” we were. we are. part of the wind.
when we go antiquing and wander around in vast collections of other people’s lives, we pass by paintings on the walls and in stacks against cabinets, displayed beautifully and piled haphazardly. we stand in front of bins full of records and 45’s, stacks of CDs not even alphabetized, the vinyl and polycarbonate/aluminum blend all beckoning us to sort through and remember songs or moments in time. and we, artists of the canvas and of song, draw in our breath. it’s an amazing vantage point floating here in time, sharing this day with the earth, contemplating.
and we wonder if this is where all of our paintings and cds will end up one day…in an antique shop where browsers will pass by, exclaiming, “wow! look at all those paintings!” or “wow! look at all those cds!” we wonder if they will stop, page through, recognize a track or two, an image or two, or if they will be curious or spellbound and buy something to bring home. perhaps we will remain part of the stacks, the bins, ever-growing, the horizon endless.
either way, we are part of the wind.
download BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL on iTUNES or CDBaby
one of the cool things about living in kenosha is the ability to easily get to two major cities – milwaukee and chicago. we drive up to milwaukee to putter around, go to the art museum, walk along the river in the third ward, go to antique shoppes. we usually take the train to chicago, driving south a couple towns for more frequent schedule choices. we walk the streets of the city, find places for coffee or glasses of wine, attend national geographic live events or a play or concert, visit with friends.
but we are actually less city people than we are outdoors people. and so, more often, we will head out – west of the i – and take a drive out in the county. in next-to-nothing we are surrounded by farmland, breathing in the scent of rich dirt in fields that are turned over for planting, some yielding early croplings*.
in also next-to-nothing time, david whips out his sketchbook and pencils to capture the really gorgeous patterns in these fields of green. (these words make me think of the stunningly beautiful song fields of gold. if you haven’t ever heard it, please take a few minutes right now and click HERE. you will be glad you did.)
just a sketch, but a reminder of the moments we passed these fields, talking or listening to music, singing along or simply silence in the car. a breath of fresh air, a drive to rejuvenate, maybe a hike on a trail to restore us – all west of the i.
“don’t judge a book by its cover,” my sweet momma used to say. i’m missing her today as i write this post for tomorrow. four years ago today she left this good earth and i could feel it tilt on its axis, trying vainly to readjust. she was generous when it came to people. she saw past what was on the outside; she sought to see what was inside.
the rough exterior we sometimes see on the outside of people is quite often a guise. we all know someone we believed to be gruff, but turned out to be quite the mush, once you were able to peel back the protective layers. we believe we know what someone else thinks or feels, but we are actually unable to physically pare back those visible and invisible outer layers, the extrinsic stuff, to get to the raw of their heart, to feel their actual worries or concerns or fears.
we each have our bark-masks, carefully designed for the venue or situation within which we find ourselves. we choose what to share with others, rarely brave enough to shed all that outer bark. for there have been times when you have peeled back the layers, revealed truths in confidence, perhaps looking for wisdom or common ground, and have been torturously walloped with judgement or scorn. it becomes much harder to allow the next shared peel.
it takes courage to BE who you really are with others. it takes courage to meet on common ground. we fear the gruff outermost skin, we are afraid of what we see and don’t understand. we may not realize someone else feels that same fear.
but there are cracks in the bark; there are fissures in the icy exterior. the tree may be shedding, the trunk expanding, growth waiting in the wings. allowing for cracks, fissures, reaching toward and not away – those can be the gps to another’s heart. it’s not always what it looks like. growth is waiting. because, you know, you can’t judge a book by its cover.
one of the sure signs of spring’s imminent arrival in our town is when boats start populating the harbor again. big shrink-wrap is removed from cabin cruisers, sailboats and yachts of all sizes and the slips start to fill up, slowly at first and then with abandon.
it was with much glee that, on our hike through the trails in a local forest preserve, i spotted it and called out, “the first dandelion!” i’m aware that not many people get as excited about dandelions as i do, but, for me, this harbinger of spring – along with gentle beauties like lilacs and tulips and daffodils – is cause for celebration. it conjures up images of cups of dandelions in water on my counter, having gone from little-kid-fists to my hands. it makes me think of decades ago, sitting cross-legged in the grass, making necklace chains out of clover. it brings the hope of a new season, the ever-more-constancy of sun and warmth, the season of flip-flops approaching.
with so much uncertainty on the horizon, the drone of winter’s end is taxing. we yearn for a blanket of warm sun, a chance to raise our faces from worry to face the sky, to breathe freshly mown grass, to put our hands in the dirt, cleaning away the debris of the harder times, perhaps preparing to plant.
but this is wisconsin and this is life and nothing is really static. life is fluid as is weather. four days after we celebrated “the first dandelion!” we drove home through a snowstorm, blowing, wet snow covering the courageous pioneers of spring. the thing i try to remember, as the grasp of winter holds tight the reins of this new season, is that they are still there.
we wait – impatiently – for the mornings we can sit outside against the house facing the sun with our coffee. we hike in our magical bristol woods and sit in the nature megaphone, out of the wind, facing the sun. we have sat on mountaintops facing the sun and on rocks beside the lake facing the sun. in canoes facing the sun and on pontoon boats facing the sun. at outdoor cafes facing the sun and squeezing into windowseats facing the sun. on the deck facing the sun and in the dirt of the trail facing the sun. on the beach facing the sun and by the pool facing the sun. we sit on adirondack chairs that we move around the yard facing the sun and we lay in the hammock that we also move around the yard facing the sun. we are the dr seusses of ‘facing the sun’ lingo.
i am a sign-reader. whether i am driving or riding in the car, i read signs. billboards, people’s clever license plates, bumper stickers, storefronts, oh, and road signs. there are certain areas of the country where signs for attorneys are rampant. other areas tout strong religious beliefs. some signs are clever “buckle up next million miles” and some are deeply insightful “when there’s only one race and that’s mankind… love is in you.” because we adore both road trips and short drives, we are privy to signs galore. one of my pet peeves is to see blatant spelling or punctuation errors on billboards; it makes me rant for several minutes about editors and proof-reading and the propensity for people to ignore the amazing thing called the dictionary.
we took a drive the other day. it was after all the services of the week were over and we were unplugging. turning the car west we headed out in search of a new hiking trail. on our drive we passed this sign. PRAY FOR OUR NATION. no fancy font, no centered spacing, just four simple words. i don’t know how long that sign has been there. it’s not in the front yard of any religious building; it’s just there, in a small park-like setting. i thought, “no kidding.” it seems apt timing.
instead of reading the paper first thing everyday now, we are reading meditations. we are considering the mica moments of the day before, the mica moments to come. we are trying to be hopeful, trying to slough off pettiness and disagreement, trying to avoid those who are clearly toxic to themselves and others, trying to engage in positive ways, trying to spend time doing things that advance us as humans in a big world rather than mire us in stunted selfish plots to further polarize and make inequity even more profound.
PRAY FOR OUR NATION doesn’t just start with folding hands and closing eyes, as much as that may help. it also starts with reaching out hands, opening your eyes, listening, learning, believing that there is only one race and it is mankind.
“GO AWAY” it reads. the sign on this front door is bracing. not just a polite “no soliciting” or even a rougher “no trespassing”, “GO AWAY” is kind of frightening. i don’t really like aggressive people…the kind of people who choose attack-mode first, before anything else. the kind of people who act like they are “communicating”, but are, indeed, just stoking the fire with toxic non-communicative venom. yikes. GO AWAY.
reading the news app on our phones each morning makes us think the words “GO AWAY” every day. certain folks, bullying and disrespectful, on all sides of the aisle, rungs of the ladder and regardless of their political leanings, need to tame their thinking and rhetoric. it’s bracing. yikes. GO AWAY.
the person revving their engine in the car behind you. they weave back and forth from one side of the lane to the other, flashing lights, putting their car into neutral, revving once again…all while you search for a place to safely pull over so that they might pass, despite the passing-zone you are driving in. their angry behavior is bracing. yikes. GO AWAY.
the problem with all of this is that making someone GO AWAY doesn’t really make them go away. it just nullifies the problem for a moment or two. it doesn’t render them less aggressive; it doesn’t enlighten them. it just makes you THINK they are gone. unless you hold the whole world in a restraining-order-pose, you will have to deal with aggressive people and their aggression. there must be a common place we can all share.
maybe we don’t really need signs that say “GO AWAY”. maybe we need signs that say “COME IN. LET’S TALK.”
we were in madison and we really could have gone anywhere to linger, have a glass of wine and a meal. my sister had sent me a birthday gift, with instructions that we celebrate with it, so we were on a quest to find the right place. it was a crowded friday early evening and just getting around the streets was nuts. we looked at each other blankly, unable to find a place to park and walk the downtown area to scour for THE place to celebrate. and then i turned the car east.
we drove onto the main street of the little town of fort atkinson and turned onto water street. there sits cafe carpe, a small been-there-since-1985 cafe, bar and music venue, run by two “fairly sentient centenarians” (as it states on their website). we walked in and were two in a total of five. it was early though so we had our choice of seating. we love to sit at the bar, especially if we are in a place where we can gaze out and see most of what is going on, people-watching and enjoying the camaraderie of a place. we found two spots at the bar, on a small stage-like pedestal, and got comfortable. two glasses of wine were delivered; lingering started. and all was perfect.
cafe carpe started to fill up. the door, with the bell on it alerting you to its opening, a sound you associate with shows like mayberry rfd, opened time and again and customers came in, greeted as they did so, clearly locals on their friday pilgrimage. it was a step into the past, and just exactly what we needed. we settled in for the next few hours in a place that felt like a second skin.
somewhere along the way, i noticed i was sitting in front of a spot on the bar with a brass plate that read “just bob” and next to my spot – to my left – was a plate that read “just leslie”. we asked our sweet bartender about this and she told us that the couple that is there every.single.friday.night.for.years. had purchased and installed these plates, marking their territory. we worried that we needed to move and asked her to give us the high sign when they arrived; we would not tread on their designated spots. she laughed and agreed to let us know.
leslie and bob didn’t show up while we were there, so we sat in their spots, keeping them warm for them. i’m sure i can imagine them walking in though. the door opens, the bell jangles against it and they stride in slowly. everyone turns and calls out hello to them and they take their seats at the bar, ordering maybe a standard wisconsin old-fashioned sweet. just leslie. just bob. how good is that?
i’m not sure why babycat thought we expected him to go sit in the square. but he did. jen had told us about this experiment….put blue tape on the floor and see what your cat does. laughing, we tried it. and b-cat cooperated. it wasn’t minutes after the tape was on the floor that he entered the kitchen, looked at it and went directly to it. he sat his sweet hulking body down inside that tape-box and eventually he laid down inside it (although he was definitely coloring outside the lines, so to speak.) it was astounding to watch. this is a cat, after all. and yes, he has really loved the dogbed in the sunroom and the crest box in the sitting room, but a box made of painter’s tape? we just didn’t expect him to conform so readily.
most of the time, b-cat lives his life outside the box. he acts more like a dog than a cat; i had never had a cat before him so i taught him all sorts of dog-tricks. babycat doesn’t really know the difference, although were he to look it all up, he would see ‘follows the sun around the house’ was in the rule book for cats, not dogs. but this one evening, with no prompt from us, he decided to stay inside the box. he sat, he laid down, he purred in his sleep. he was content. inside the box wasn’t too bad, i guess. later on, though, when the tape was off the floor, he didn’t seem to notice it was gone. he never looked for it. he didn’t seem to pine for its presence in his life. he just went about his not-normal-cat behavior. outside the box.
i guess there is something to be said both about living in the box and living outside the box. both have merit. one encourages you to be the cat you are defined to be. the other allows you to be the dog no one expects you to be.
