grey/gray rarely has such a line of demarcation, rarely has distinctive texture such as in this picture beyond our littlehouse yard. grey is simply gray. it is the zone of not right/not wrong. it is the living in-between-ness of doing life this way/that way. it is the space of not-knowing, asking questions, learning, being vulnerable. it can be uncomfortable. but it is necessary.
the most growing i have done has been in the grey zones. the times when i did not know, the times i made mistakes, the times choices were confusing, the times devastated by life events, the times moving forward meant tiny baby step by baby step, the times i was vulnerable.
i would add we can never know, or even approximate, what someone else is feeling without being unguarded ourselves. we can never know the unanswered questions, the struggles, the amorphous-ness of life without the grey. we can never create without the grey – for an artist languishes in grey, if for no other reason than to seek the color within himself.
it is against the odds that this tree clings to rock and doesn’t topple into the lake with a great splash and float away. instead it stubbornly holds on, a steadfast intention. the rock, the basso ostinato.
at a time when holding steadfast seems mightily important, i wonder about the questions we have been asked. will you stay? will you leave? will you love it here? in the midst of all the infighting, are you going to give up? will you hold on?
the answers may not be directly related to the actual intent of those questions.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. we will hold steadfast to our integrity. we will hold steadfast to the reasons we came here in the first place. to make a difference, to bring ideas and change, to apply that which we have learned, studied, experienced over at least 80 combined years of work, higher education and profession. to be honest and transparent and collaborative. to try and instill a sense of working together into a community divided by narratives too numerous to list.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. we will hold steadfast to our belief that people should be kind to each other, that people should not work around others nor should they undermine others, that people should instead lift each other up, not drive stakes into another.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. steadfastly. to honoring art, the driving force behind this initiative. to honoring creativity and the blossoming of beauty and wisdom, staunch tenets of artistry.
will we hold on? yes, we will hold on. steadfastly. to believing all is possible.
but, in answer to the real intent of the question asked us….will we hold on?
we will not hold on if others cannot join us in what is real, what is truth, what is most important. we will not hold on in the fire of pettiness or shameful self-serving underhandedness. we will not hold on, holding still while others take turns throwing rocks at us, at the real goals of this place, if those are indeed about art.
the answer to the question is not up to us. we can either cling to the rock, holding steadfast or we can topple, with a refreshing splash, into the lake and float away.
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we sat on schoolhouse beach, in the middle of the (figurative) storm around us, and made shadow puppets. giggling, we fell back on the rocks, the healing beginning.
when i think back over the last decade or so, i am struck by how many things my menopausal brain can’t remember. even though today, in a little shop, abba’s song Fernando came on and i sang along to every word, the last time i heard this song maybe 4 or 5 years ago….maybe, but i can’t recollect.
the things i remember over the years are the things that stood out. moments of despair, of loss. moments of confusion, of great pain as i sorted them out. times of many tears. times my stomach and the sides of my face hurt from laughing so hard. times of hard work. even more importantly, times of play. ralph waldo emerson said, “it is a happy talent to know how to play.”
even in the midst of everything else, we must remember to play. for that will carry us far. further than grief will. further than withstanding searing pain. further than the sobs that make you lay on the kitchen floor. further than hard work.
for in play comes laughter. and in laughter, the release of great love. love is everlasting. it is patient and kind. it does not envy or boast. it is not proud. it does not dishonor others nor is it self-seeking. it is not easily angered and keeps no record of wrongs. love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. it protects, trusts, hopes, perseveres. love never fails.(I Corinthians 13)
so. play. and love. together, those -in the rest of life- will endure anything.
at night, if the weather is clear, with the backdrop of waves lapping at the shore, we look up and see the milky way in the night sky. it makes us feel tiny. tiny in a vast world.
we string happy lights about our home, inside and out. they are the simplest of holiday light strands, eensy white lights on green or white cords and we use them year-round. one white light alone barely lights a space, but together, a constellation of tiny bulbs, the illumination is magical. one alone. all together. it makes a big difference.
we are working in a place that is divided. the division is deeply rooted and exacerbated by stubborn attitudes and time. we must “string the stars together” to bring hope; we must “sing light in common song” to move forward. community must prevail over a schism of proportion. no place can truly be beautiful without stringing together. we have our work cut out for us.
fair isle books is one of the sweetest spots on this island. a breath of fresh air with warm ambience and overtones of the joy of learning, this little shop is owned by deb, whose heart is gigantic. outside her shop is this plaque, a snippet of a poem ‘constellation’ by wisconsin poet laureate bruce dethlefsen, a presenter at the washington island literary festival in 2013.
how fortuitous that this poet should capture in a mere 33 words the work that is to be done. we are not alone, each of us on this tiny-planet-in-the-vastness. though seemingly individually strong, we are indeed actually weak. we must link arms, act in community, string together, work collaboratively.
division doesn’t create more for each on the sides of the chasm. it creates less.
collectively, we can create boundlessly. our constellation -together- creates hope.
i distinctly remember my sweet momma talking about FERDINAND THE BULL. she would refer to him from time to time, a twang on the third syllable slipping into her new york accent. i am wracking my memory for her other wise words about him. my guess is that, despite not remembering her exact words, her message isn’t lost on me.
FERDINAND is a book published in 1936, the story of a gentle bull who loved to smell flowers (aka “flowuhs”). he spent his time sitting under a tree, daydreaming, sniffing flowers. upon finding himself in the madrid bullfighting ring, he sits calmly in the middle, refusing to take the bait. the grace of a mashup of “i want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.” (oriah mountain dreamer) and “when push comes to shove, don’t.” (unknown) we have much to learn.
FERDINAND was performed by the Washington Island Music Fest this past week and was among my favorite moments of this two week music festival at TPAC. it was sweet on many levels, read aloud, depicted on violin, slides of the original illustrations on screen.
and my momma, in my mind’s eye, reminding me to be like FERDINAND. a bull, by definition fully expected to want to fight, presumed to fight, just like all the other bulls – and yet, brave enough to be different, to sniff the flowers, to turn away from participating in dissension or violence, to be at peace being true to oneself.
on march 19 of this year i wrote about our prayer flags. the ones at our home, i cherish their presence as they flutter in our backyard breezes. the prayer flags in this post are at our littlehouse on island. they stretch between a tree and a covered wooden rocking loveseat that plants itself firmly gazing at the lake. my sweet girl got me these as a gift, from the same little shop in ridgway, colorado that our home-prayer-flags come from.
the lake breeze is stronger than the breezes in our backyard; sometimes the flags are horizontal in its fury. the threads are loosening, loosening; the prayers are flying, flying. these little prayer flags are already more quickly tattered than the ones we have at our home. prayers for peace, compassion, strength and wisdom are perhaps more zealous these days, perhaps more often, perhaps more imploring.
at the end of this season we will gently take our prayer flags down and wrap them in soft cloth or tissue. we will thank them and put them in our special box to bring home with us. perhaps they will then hang with the flags-in-the-backyard. or perhaps, after a time of flying and more reassurance than i can explain, they will rest. we will see.
“we pass under them every time we leave the house and every time we return. our prayer flags fly between the house and the garage…a welcome sight either way. although better given to you as a gift, we purchased our flags in a little shop in ridgway, colorado and i consider it a gift that we were able to spend time in that tiny mountain town in the san juan mountains. these flags represent that place to us, that time, and so much more.
each color is symbolic of an element…white is air and wind, blue is sky and space, green symbolizes water, red is fire and yellow is earth. flying these in a specific order produces a balance of health and harmony. flying these promotes peace, compassion, strength and wisdom; the wind blows the prayers into the universe. i cannot think of more visual evidence of constant prayer. it matters not to me what religious practice is associated with them. the prayers are so much bigger than that. everything is bigger than that.
every time we watch any depiction of an everest story, there are multitudes of these buddhist prayer flags. they grace base camp and the summit and each camp between, the prayers issued by those people seeking to reach the highest place on earth.
we can’t claim trying to reach the highest physical place on earth. but we can claim seeking peace, compassion, strength and wisdom, a balance of health and harmony. for me, for us, those things are the highest place on earth.” (march 19, 2019)
click here to browse or purchase ISLAND PRAYER FLAGS as wall art
click here to browse or purchase ISLAND PRAYER FLAGS – THE FIVE ELEMENTS as wall art
years ago when i turned 30 we celebrated by going to the zoo. we spent the day, along with my parents and my niece, traipsing around admiring animals, learning factoids, taking pictures, eating ice cream. i’m not really a zoo person. i prefer to think of animals living happily in the wild, supported by a world that is thoughtful, careful and ecologically minded. but i do recognize the need to conserve endangered species, study wildlife and inspire education and preservation of species and their natural environments.
it just so happened that the day we visited this zoo, this day that i turned the big 3-0, they were pouring cement sidewalks. there is a wee letter ‘k’ in that sidewalk. a mark.
we all want to leave a mark. is it an invention? is it a passing-down of a precious heirloom? is it a name on a bench in a personal, special place? is it a work of fine art, a painting, a piece of music? is it a story? is it a world record? is it a mindset? is it a way of being on this good earth?
i’m not sure when they last poured the surface on townline road. but on that day, a certain seagull decided to leave a mark. it walked across the freshly poured street – pad, pad, pad – and, until they pour again, its mark will remain. we smile every time we walk past this set of prints, wondering aloud how long they have been there.
as we continue our time here, we are aware both of the mark we are leaving and the mark people are leaving on us. in many years from now, when the road is paved over and we are no longer, i would hope that most of us led with the mark my sweet momma left, “be kind to each other.”
we are five hours and a ferry ride from our basement. but we have an amazing posse of friends back there on the mainland. my girl has taken up residency keeping an eye on our house and our posse is keeping an eye out for her. we know that, no matter what, someone is but a phone call and minutes away from any kind of help she – or our house, basement included – might need. and in that, we rest easy. such generosity.
the humidity and heat has been high in southeastern wisconsin this summer and our basement? in a line from my big fat greek wedding, it suffers. one dehumidifier is not enough. worried, we texted our up-north-gang up north to ask advice: “in a non-centrally-air-conditioned house, how many dehumidifiers would you put in the basement?” immediately we got back answers from jay and gay, opinions from charlie and dan, and within days dan brought over a dehumidifier, installed it and checked on the one already there. thinking about the cluttered basement, we texted to him that while paying attention to the basement to please ignore the basement. he texted back, “i didn’t even notice the basement.” generosity.
we ran home for a night a couple weeks ago. we ran errands, we installed the a/c units in the windows, we grocery shopped, we weeded and vacuumed, we prepped the house for our girl’s arrival. we picked up mail and packages from john, shared drinks and not-enough-stories with jen and brad, ate a late dinner with 20, had quick before-she-went-to-work coffee with michele. in their busy schedules, our beloved posse dropped everything and made time to see us, time to spend together. generosity.
we couldn’t be here without our posse there. fact of the matter is, we couldn’t be THERE without our posse there.
because it takes a village to take care of a basement. and each other.
the first time we went to the tiny farmer’s market on island we ran into a few people we had just met. new friends, they stopped to chat for a time and tom said, “the whole island is a welcome sign.” that seems to be true. a welcome sign.
yesterday we heard about people standing in line in the little grocery store. the clerk and the customer checking out were having a chat. no one in line interrupted. no one shuffled their groceries. no one shifted from one leg to the other, impatiently sighing loudly. they just waited. and then, when it was their turn, they had their own chat with the clerk. the grocery store is a welcome sign.
we were walking down the road arm in arm, a few miles from home, and an old light blue pickup truck pulled up next to us. a sweet old man leaned out and said, “you two lovebirds want a ride?” we laughed and said that we were out for a stroll. motioning to the bed of the truck, he told us he had plenty of room but added, “it looks like you are doing just fine.” we chatted a minute more and he pulled away. a welcome sign.
we were obliviously riding our bikes on the road, looking for deer in the woods. talking quietly and laughing at my attempts at no-handed riding (which, by the way, came back after a try or two), i suddenly realized there was a car behind us. i motioned quickly to d to pull over in front of me and get out of the car’s way. as it passed, i called into the rolled-down window “sorry!” the driver called back, “no worries! enjoy your ride!” no horn beeping, no revving of engine, no grumpy voice, no gesturing. just a “no worries!” a welcome sign.
slow. slow. when we drove home the other day, we realized how very slowly we were moving here on island. the comparison began the instant we were on the mainland. we hadn’t driven over 40mph for a couple weeks; suddenly we could feel the push, the frenzy to get somewhere, fast, faster. it’s pervasive, that frenetic energy, and the closer we got to milwaukee, the more we could feel it. our heartbeats raced as cars darted in and out of lanes, as horns beeped and drivers gestured impatiently. no one noticed each other. they just drove, destination their only intention.
slow. slow. we walked home the other night. after porch-sitting and having a short meeting, we ambled down the middle of the road. no one was coming; no one passed us. the interruption in quiet would have alerted us to any oncoming car. we shared the woods around us with a deer, who was still, watching us for signs if we were going to approach. our pause on the road and our slow movements convinced the deer to not run, but to stay and just be still. to watch. an eagle flew above us. looking up, there was a moment we recognized that this eagle saw us. the deer, the eagle, noticed us. we were in the world together in those moments. no intention but to breathe the same air.
slow. slow. we are learning, slowly, about this community. connecting the dots, discerning the culture, perceiving the nuances. we are studying this place that is our job – a performing arts center with 250 seats on a tiny island you can only get to by ferry. a step away-away. a place in which we want to elevate artistry and growth. we move slowly, thoughtfully. our intention, our work, the maturing of this place that has been germinated and cared for. a rich garden, a rich forest of verdant adolescence, waiting to flourish. slow. slow.
reverse threading 