there were multiple times – when my sweet momma was here on this earth – that i brought her yellow roses. they were something special between us – an expression of love between mother and daughter.
yellow roses have a different significance than red. they are indicative of friendship, the deep bonds of love, warmth and joy, fresh starts, gratitude, hope. i read that in japan yellow roses symbolize courage and inner strength.
months ago, a dear friend gave me a small mini yellow rose plant, likely purchased at the floral section of a grocery store. it had several miniature yellow roses blooming and several buds in the waiting when i received it and i figured that it – like other more temperamental plants – would run its course.
it is months later. and the yellow rose is still in its original pot. it appears to love its residence next to the old garden table, on the deck, sharing a bit of space with the basil. it has flourished – bud after bud, bloom after bloom. it has embraced life beyond our expectation. even now, with its leaf-nod to the approaching fall, it has three buds – three bursts of beauty in the offing.
and, every day i look at it i think of my sweet momma. and i wonder about how this particular plant has been so resilient. i wonder if it had a littlebitta help from her.
i wonder if this plenty – this profusion of buds and blooms are tiny messages from her – sent in love, delivering bravery and perseverance. they are certainly well-timed.
and – if my sweet momma is the one whose green thumb from some other plane of existence has helped along this little plant aspiring to burst past what’s expected, to burst past little-life – i remember she is the same woman who wrote: don’t underestimate me…
we didn’t expect this when we planted the sweet potato that had grown hot pink tendrils in the wire basket hanging in the basement stairwell. we actually had no idea what to expect. but we had a couple planters and some good dirt, no expectations and – importantly – curiosity.
we watched this planter – literally – every single day. we noted as the pink shoots stood tall through the dirt and then grew the tiniest leaves. i took photographs as it began to grow; it seemed exponentially enthusiastic. we were enchanted.
we still are.
there are now three – actual potatoes – planted in two different planters just off the deck.
and every day we go out our back door we pass by these sweet potato plants. every day we are greeted with their heart-shaped leaves. every day, hearts.
curiosity is a funny thing. it would have been easier to toss the sweet potatoes that had gone beyond or, if not too far gone, cut off the sprouts and check the rest for spoilage. but we were curious. these little guys had sprouted in what seemed like overnight in our stairwell. with plants having that kind of zealous intention and fortitude, we wondered what might happen if we planted them.
this tiny observance – paying attention to these tiny pink sprouts – brought us on a journey a good deal of the summer. we watched, we researched, we celebrated these sweet potatoes.
most of all, we learned.
it’s not to be underestimated – curiosity.
its energy begets more energy.
there’s no telling what can happen when curious people get together and set no limits on their questioning, their poking and prodding, their research and experimentation, their inquisitiveness.
“the mind that opens to a new idea never returns to its original size.” (Albert Einstein) “the important thing is not to stop questioning. curiosity has its own reason for existing.”
this brings me joy – stepping into this tiny little corner garden. each year it has been a place to wonder, to learn, to dream, to envision bounty. tiny as it is, it is a place of abundance and, even as autumn falls, i cherish its every bit of 28 square feet.
the parsley and the basil are still producing – they graced our homemade tomato soup last night. there are a few jalapeños left, still growing. the dill has dulled; the mint has faded. the cilantro has bolted time and again, despite my best efforts to convince it otherwise. the cherry tomatoes are ripening on the vine and the rosemary is a small tree. i suspect the rosemary will make its way inside for the winter. it all makes me think of next year’s planting – adding sweet potatoes in planters, more tomatoes, maybe a few other vegetables. it’s all been a lesson in embracing something new. it is a tiny space of zen.
we are considering some changes as we look around our house. in the cleaning-out mode, less and less is necessary. clearing away a child’s desk, a lateral file, unused appliances or electronics…it’s all fodder for the space we need – particularly in these times – for cherished quiet, for serenity. i am finding there is a direct connection between the more clear space and the more breath. it will take some time, as it has taken decades to acquire so many things. but we have time and, i believe, we have the wherewithal to go through our house, room by room, and invite in a sagefilled peace.
it’s really all about intention. though we do not live in a vast home and are not surrounded by vast acreage, we bring an intention to our home that is purposeful. as we move from room to room, slowly parsing out the unnecessary from the necessary or the wanteds, slowly replacing items with other items or replacing items with air-and-space, we tend to how it feels. we want to create a space in which we feel comforted, supported, valued. we want to create a space in which others feel comforted, supported, valued. we want a place filled with soul and acceptance of the inbetween moments in all of life.
today we’ll make a batch of pesto. as i look at the basil plants, i figure it will likely be the last batch this season. oh, there will be a bit for our homemade margherita pizzas, but not in real quantity. so we’ll go slow. snipping and rinsing, chopping and grating. we’ll talk about our garden – truly, for the umpteenth time. we’ll relish the pungent aroma of freshly-picked basil in the house.
and we’ll stand in the kitchen – looking at each other – with tears in our eyes – astonished at our good fortune.
without the haze of humidity the sun seems brighter, the woods seem crisper, the sky seems bluer. it’s as if the soft-focus filter was lifted and clarity was restored.
tuesday we stopped by our much-loved-mechanic’s shop. littlebabyscion has had a mountain of emissions work done and we wanted to share that it passed the emissions test. (all – money and time and effort and good intention – ironically – in the middle of an administration that could care less about the danger of greenhouse gases while repealing clean air initiatives and gutting the environmental protection agency.)
while there, i noticed a copy of the local newspaper on top of a big toolbox.
i used to subscribe to the paper. i’d read it each day, catching up on local, domestic and international news. it’s been well over a decade now since i have had delivery. having shrunk by leaps and bounds in recent years, it’s about the thickness of my college newspaper these days.
there were several headlines on tuesday’s front page.
one of the minor – minor! – headlines was this: “court lifts immigration operation restrictions”.
i was aghast.
in a 6-3 conservative majority ruling, the supreme court of this united states – that is supposed to uphold the constitution of these united states – decided that racial profiling is a-ok with them – liberally putting a match to all-men-are-created-equal, gutting the 14th amendment’s equal protection clause and paying no heed to the 4th amendment’s probable cause necessity, subjecting the populace to the elimination of constitutional freedoms.
though an AP article reporting on the court’s appalling decision was copied and pasted, the weeny headline penned by the paper intimated – no, completely underplayed – with a light and positive spin for a hugely negative action by the highest judiciary in this land – the people charged with the protection of this democracy, its institutions, its law. a soft focus filter applied to a stark reality.
now, i am not a journalist, but i am a consumer of journalism. and a brief foray into definitions and descriptions of the use of headlines would lead one to believe that a headline will most definitely set the tone of the piece that follows, give the gist of the piece, signal its significance. in real application, however, we see that headlines expose the underlying slant of a journalistic institution. they give one insight to the stance of that institution reporting “the news”.
so…where is the headline “supreme court lifts restrictions on racial profiling“? the headline “court promotes indiscriminate roving immigration patrols and stops“? the headline that blasts out “court ceases constitutional freedoms“??
let us not forget that this decision by this highest court will impact every single person in this country. it is a decision that can be maliciously construed for any population of people.
the headline and article with the largest font and the biggest presence on the page was “hundreds turn out to ride“, an article featuring the town’s electric streetcars.
this may be the reason the paper is barely a paper. daily delivery for this is $60 a month.
this day – today – marks the 24th anniversary of the september 11 targeted terrorism attacks, a time when our country came together to push back against the atrocities of hate.
are not masked “roving immigration patrols” an atrocity of hate within our own country?
where is the paper’s clarity of this perilous moment we are now in? where is their screaming headline?
“we have a choice: to spend a lot of time fighting for what we know is right, or to just accept what we know is wrong. we must stand up for our rights and the rights of others, even if most people say we can’t win.” (susan polis schutz)
the time is now. we have a choice.
one of the things i didn’t mention from my view of the IG post of the mom speaking to her little five year old son – about listening to his teacher during a school emergency – also hit home for me.
addressing the context of that post was a comment from another young mom. she wrote about her reluctance to let her little boy wear light-up shoes to school. this should stop you in your tracks – like every other single thing in talk-talk about school shootings.
think about this.
she decided not to let her little boy – her five year old – wear light-up shoes to school.
light-up shoes.
and why not, you ask?
so that – in the event that a mass shooter is in the room – her tiny little boy does not light up in a dark classroom by moving his feet ever so slightly.
it is a despicable and horrifying thought and a stunning picture of where this country has come in zero effort of protecting its children.
but, hey, don’t forget all those thoughts and prayers – pathetic, passive excuses for inaction.
my little boy – now all grown up – wore light-up sneakers for a vast part of his little childhood. he loved them and we loved that he loved them. it never once occurred to me that his tiny shoes could be a death sentence for him. it never once occurred to me that he might light up in a dark classroom or a dark closet or a dark stairwell. it is a grossly vapid conscience this country has adopted – that has parents owning defense for their children against guns to the point of picking out footwear that doesn’t more easily enable a person with a weapon of mass destruction to kill their child.
what the absolute hell????
and now, that same little boy of mine – who is all grown up – who is gay – who is a recording and performing artist – lives in a city upon which the administration of this country has just declared war. announced in the most blatantly depraved meme, this administration is invading, looking for the light-up shoes.
the rights of the people of the city of chicago are being annihilated with this invasion. it is a constitutional failure of epic proportion.
and yet, i know that we have family members cheering on the sidelines, which, frankly, makes me want to vomit. even the silent – those who refuse to speak about what is happening – accepting what is wrong – they, too, are complicit. how.do.they.sleep?
this is my son – our son. these are his friends, his colleagues. this is his community. this is a city just down the road full of neighborhoods and people, diverse and vibrant, doing their best at a time the leadership is doing their worst.
just like every other place upon which they are siccing their thugs.
it is unconscionable.
and the time is now.
and everything inside me wants to write to our son and implore him not to wear light-up shoes.
were this monarch to have the tiniest of notebooks and a tinier pencil, i would feel even more kinship with it.
i can imagine that it – perched on the vine-wall that has taken over the fence – is writing gentle poetry, haikus about flying and how sunshine feels on its wings. i can imagine that it – late in the summer, maybe a super-generation butterfly – is pondering the freedom of a bit-longer lifespan, the sky-trip it has booked to mexico as summer ends. it might write of adventures and exploring, of new discoveries, milkweed and other plants it now feeds on.
i wonder if it feels the same way i felt – so many decades ago – sitting in my maple tree, perched against the trunk, writing. it felt like there could be nothing at all wrong in the world, and that, like the monarch’s vibrant colors warning of toxins, my coca-cola it’s-the-real-thing pants and floppy hat would keep away any predators. i wonder if its words flit over sunrises and sunsets, grown-up seagull dreams, innocence and possibility.
we’re sitting in the old gravity chairs we unearthed from up in the rafters of the garage. our feet up, pillows behind our backs, we quietly watch the busy life of our backyard. there’s so much space to just think, to ponder.
the butterfly floats past us, over us, behind us. it lands on the burgeoning vine, the natural privacy screen growing helter-skelter on the fence. it is free to roam. it is free to be.
and then.
i overheard, “he got a monarch.” the butterfly’s vivid orange and black and broad stripes didn’t protect it from the cat prowling for prey next door.
i felt my heart sink. in like manner, my coca-cola pants and dr scholl’s, hard-held value set and a sunrise-sunset horizon full of possibility didn’t protect me either.
built from a couple planks of old barn wood and some galvanized pipe, its possibilities were endless. tucked into a corner of the backyard, cozied up between the edge of the deck and the fence, every day this mighty garden called my name.
not so mighty in size, it was wildly enormous in delivering zen. with a pair of clippers in my hand and a watering wand waiting nearby, i spent hours through this summer tending this garden.
and it has rewarded us with jalapeños and cherry tomatoes, basil and mint and rosemary and cilantro and parsley. nothing you can’t purchase at a market, but there is something about growing right outside your kitchen, a few steps across the deck, through a wrought iron gate from the patio.
we continue to harvest from this potting stand. we’ll see it through to the last of the herbs, the last of the peppers and tomatoes, all the while planning a bit more for next year. success begets trying some new things. we planted in previous years – and there was a yield of herbs, a few tomatoes, a handful of peppers – but there was something a bit different about this year.
and this was the year we needed it.
somehow, the universe – in all its energy and light – knew that this was the time. a time for us to invest our own energy and attention into growing things. not just grasses or ferns or peonies or a few other flowers, but things that would nourish us, things that would connect the dots from dirt to our kitchen.
a gift of growing at a time when growth – real, human, throw-out-your-arms-and-hold-all-the-world-close growth – seems to be shunned, devalued, debased.
back in the day i spent a lot of time on the sidelines of soccer fields, baseball diamonds, basketball courts, tennis courts. under fleece blankets and roasting in the sun, i have listened to coaches coaching and parents of team members instruction-yelling. i have sat on bleachers and watched lessons and warmups and scrimmages and many, many games and tournaments and matches. i have attempted – poorly, i might add – my hand at golf and volleyball, tennis and ping-pong – some quite limited times – and have been instructed with good intention – but with little prowess for application.
the things that i have heard – over and over – and over and over – is to keep your eyes open, to keep your eyes on the ball.
it makes sense. not only will it help in balance, in appropriate contact with the ball, in prediction of the ball’s trajectory, it keeps you in the game. it’s essential.
in these times – in this country – it would seem the same: to keep your eyes open, to keep your eyes on the ball.
it also seems utterly impossible to do – if you are relying entirely on mainstream – legacy – media. for they, in many ways, have dropped the proverbial ball. they are languaging these days of chaos in milder terms than should be tolerated. they are minimizing and normalizing. it is leaving the reds in red-land where they are fed conspiracy after conspiracy, lie after lie. it is leaving the blues in blue-land where the words describing the actions and intentions of the current administration are sorely lacking in descriptors that even begin to touch the peril in which this country finds itself.
if the course of ten years ago – and since – hadn’t already brought us to the place of question-asking, fact-checking, source-locating, detail-expounding, independent-media-watching/reading/listening, the horror of these days would have pushed us there.
we have encountered many who would just rather not. rather not know, rather not talk about it, rather not deal with it, rather not.
we are simply keeping our eyes on the ball. it will help keep us in balance, in appropriate contact with the game, in prediction of the trajectory.
anything else is the behavior of wishful thinking, the behavior of ostriches, the behavior of people who don’t care what happens to this country, its laws, its land, or its people.
being an informed citizen is essential. let’s keep our eyes open.
the breeze was decidedly heavenly, refreshing, a breath of fresh air.
it had been a while.
this summer – clearly in the midst of changing climate – has been a doozy. hot and humid and downright uncomfortable. it used to be that we’d ponder whether or not to place the window air conditioner units in the windows. we’d fuss and debate and look at the extended weather forecast, trying to decide if we could suffer through a few days or a week of sticky, knowing that wisconsin would reward us with a breezy sweep-through back into exceptional summer weather.
not this year.
it literally felt like it – the sticky – arrived. and never left. every morning i’d open the back door, step out on the deck and say aloud, “it smells like florida.” the fact that it also felt like florida made me want to get my money back from the wisconsin-summer for which i’d signed up.
in these days i am much less tolerant of the heat. me and dogga. and even d. all three of us, dogga’s tongue hanging out and all of us panting – it’s not a pretty picture. and so, we (the plural we, though it is most definitely the singular d) installed the window air conditioners. and, with WE-energies’-exponentially-rising-costs and caution to the wind, we ran them.
and then.
then the breeze shifted.
finally.
and, with great flip-flop glee, we started back walking our long ‘hood walks.
because merely steps away is this great big beautiful (oh, wait! i simply cannot use those words in that order anymore)…..merely steps away is this vast, stunning lake.
we feel lucky every time we walk along its edge. we feel lucky as the breeze wraps us in cool. we feel lucky at the harbor, at the beach, on the rocks, at the historic beachhouse where everyone gathered after our wedding. merely steps away is this reminder to breathe.
and so we stand there, staring at this lake like an old friend we’ve known for decades. and, just like people – filled with stories and layers and grief and bliss and tenderness and churning and color and monochrome – it’s always familiar and always an enigma – both.
the sun dipped below the west horizon, amping up the ombré of the east.
the cosmos splashed across a bit of sidewalk were an invitation for attention. that color! instantly-happy-hot-pink.
she looked wary when i asked her if it was her house. she hesitated a moment and then answered, “yes, it is.”
we were passing by and, as is the case every time we pass by this house, we were charmed by the flowers out front, the porch, the cleverly colorful way the house is painted, the firepit in the front. it is just all delightful and so i told her, “we love it every single time we pass by.”
it wasn’t what she expected, i guess. she smiled, looking surprised, and thanked us, going back to watering her front garden.
and we walked on.
we are living in such trepidatious times. it seems much easier these days for people to say something negative to another person. we drive and blatant f*** you stickers are on vehicles, foul messages of rage and violence. it is clear that the bearers of these messages believe it is perfectly ok to display them to carloads of strangers – adults and children – with whom they are sharing the road. it’s disturbing. people have been given permission to be aggressive, to be filled with anger, to be vile to others.
and so, in light of all the rampant hostility, i realized – afterwards – that this young woman may have felt uncomfortable with my question “is this your house?” and i noted to myself to – next time – start with my compliment, “hi…we love this house every single time we pass by, so if it is yours i’d like you to know that.”
our town does a really spectacular job of flowers. there are stunning gardens in the parks by the harbor and beaches, pots of flowers hanging from the streetlights in downtown, in big planters on the sidewalk. they are all well taken care of and, from time to time, as we have passed people working in those gardens, we have thanked them. they always seem surprised.
i feel like we have fallen down on the job of being human when it is a surprise that someone is courteous, when it is a surprise to be complimented or treated kindly, when the expectation is first that of the possibility of pointed antagonism, when we succumb to spewing the loathsome and revolting rhetoric of hatred, divisiveness, bigotry.
reverse threading 