we are the not the first on the trail after fresh snow. there have been many. boots, deer tracks, dog prints, raccoon hands, horseshoes, even something with tire tread. many.
but it is of no less value to us – this trail – because others have walked it before us. and it is of no less import.
often, after a snow or a melt, there are indications of the alternate trails hikers have taken – to avoid icy snow or slippery mud. we follow those sidetrails, grateful for the wisdom of those before us. their experience suggested to us a different way to go – a decision point. often, we have been grateful after following that which seemed to help mold our choice. and, often, we have seen the impact after not following. falling is falling.
the trail – and how to deal with ice or mud or other tricky impasse – far less potent than the things we now must muster up from helpful hints on the trail of life, learnings of the past, from lessons and decisions of the wise before us.
now we must deal with the dastards and dastardly all around us. now we must make informed decisions about the future – with history as our guiding force, discerning. now we must act with conscience – pushing back against any sway of the temptation of quiet, pushing back against any catalyst of evil. now we must empower ourselves with knowledge – with the vast volume of perspectives that can ground us in truth and integrity, that can point the way to holding this democracy.
many have come here before us.
we need remember that – in any shape or form – falling is falling.
“only when a fire sweeps through, melting the resin, do these heat-dependent cones open up, releasing seeds that are then distributed by wind and gravity.” (national forest foundation)
one by one we fed ten lodgepole pine cones into our small solstice fire. one by one we silently whispered a prayer, a wish, a hope for each one. one by one we watched them ignite, slowly burning off the resin and sending off invisible seeds into the universe.
it was a perfect summer night. the wind had shifted off the lake and it was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been. we sat on the back patio for hours. it was quiet, peaceful.
it seemed a good night to look to something new, to celebrate the light of the solstice, the potency of life. it seemed a good night to lean into the lodgepole’s protection from unwanted energy, from evil influences. it seemed a good night to embrace resilience and renewal.
we have saved these pinecones, ever so slowly choosing them for release from a boxful that had been gifted us by a dear friend for our wedding. her words about fire and light and rejuvenation were truly soul gifts and we hold closely these precious lodgepole pinecones.
this morning i read that pine is “generally associated with longevity and wisdom, instilling courage and optimism.”
in the coincidence of the universe, these were a few of the words i held as i watched the pinecones i added to our solstice fire burn.
on this part of our walk in the ‘hood, our shadows precede us. we follow them east down the sidewalk, never quite catching up. and, just as suddenly as they appeared, they disappear – as we turn a corner and head for home.
i, laughing aloud, wish for the long, skinny legs of my shadow. though we clearly can’t see our expressions in our shadow photograph, we both smile as i take a picture. it reminds me of times of confusion in my life when it was difficult to sort out the emotions of the time – and i smiled anyway.
when i was in junior high we were assigned the task of choosing an old radio show, writing a new script and recording the show onto cassette tape. my group chose “the shadow”. “who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of man? the shadow knows.” i don’t remember the script we wrote or the storyline we chose, but i do remember the commercial we made. it was about a product that could clean anything – from brushing your teeth to heavy grunge cleaning – the same product.
i am aware of shadow work – the shadow – the place where unprocessed trauma is found, where pain is stored, where we somehow try to protect ourselves. the work to help recognize what has become unconsciously present in our lives. it would seem important for all of us to have an opportunity for the quiet time to step into our shadow – the place that knows. because we are human, there are always places in our heart to heal.
in the meanwhile and here in the sweet phase, we walk arm in arm around the block a few steps behind our shadows. we binge on happy moments and hoard them for trying times, sad times, confusing times, times when our shadow tilts its head and asks us to feel something else.
we carry the wisdom of time we have already spent living. there’s a knowledge we gain as we experience the blisses and the traumas of this life. and smiling – even in the shadow times – stokes the fire, keeps the pilot light on, reminds us of the here and now and the evanescence of it all.
i just heard about darn tough hiking socks. they are known for their comfort, durability and fit. they wick moisture and are anti-blister. these are all important features in a hiking sock. heck, they are important features in living life.
the river rises and falls. we have seen it spilling way across the trail, with trees looking like they are standing in a bayou, water so stretched out it looks less like a river than a lake. we have seen it pulled way back, the level low, the riverbed exposed, turtles with no place to hide. it surprises us to arrive and see it so different from the last time. and it doesn’t surprise us.
everything is in flux. everything. and i suppose i am surprised and i am not surprised.
it all rises and falls. it spills over and recedes. life gives and takes. successes are jubilant, disappointments are despairing. relationships flourish and barely hold on…connection replaced by disconnect replaced by connection. well-being is momentary. we are secure, we are imperiled. we are flush with excitement and trembling with dread. such a dichotomy, this living thing.
it reminds me – once again – of an interview i heard with an elderly woman of 95. she was asked how she managed to stay vital and engaged for so long, to stay robustly healthy and remarkably positive. she just gracefully rode the ebbs and flows, surfing the river-bayou-trickle and its continual changes. she answered, “i take nothing personally.”
they must have modeled the socks after her. comfort, durability, fit, moisture-wicking and anti-blister.
“may you awaken to the mystery of being here.” (a blessing for presence – john o’donohue)
when my big brother died i had trouble wrapping my head around his not-being-here. at the time i was an adult, pregnant with my second child and was personally acquainted with previous loss – i had lost all my grandparents along the way. but there was something i couldn’t put my finger on, something that was so perplexing and mind-warping for me that it sat with me and sat with me and, even now, there are times i ponder it. my big universe query was: wondering how the world could go on if he could no longer feel it.
i still don’t know the answer. i do know that it just does. the universe keeps keeping-on, despite who is present – in any of its dimensions.
in the decades now that have passed since my beloved brother died, i’ve also lost my sweet momma and poppo, other relatives, dear friends. in exquisite moments of reassurance, i have experienced them – from time to time – reaching from the other side. they’re right here, i think, just over there. though i wish i could summon them when i need them, that’s not how it works. and so i just glory in the moments when they happen and try to remember.
in those very moments – and any other, really – i think about what wisdoms they might share with me from that other side, from the Next place, the Next time.
i’m pretty sure they’d agree with john o’odonohue. they might tell me, as i sit in the adirondack chair on the sun-showered patio with my husband and dog, sipping a glass of wine and watching the grass grow, “just being there should be enough.”
they might whisper to me to slow down.
they might remind me of the sacredness of each minute.
they might cajole me from my angsts. in turn, they might admonish me to let go of ludicrous overplanning.
they might point out the new buds on the aspen, the volunteer daylilies in the garden, the black-capped chickadees and house sparrows dancing by the feeder, the shadows playing across our field of vision in this small sanctuary we love.
they might tap me on the shoulder and repeat a few more words of john o’donohue’s, “enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.”
20 sees faces everywhere. and because he does, so do we. taking the donkey chip out of the bag, it was without hesitation i sent him chipface, pointy nose, weak jaw and all. he sent some snide remark back, making me laugh aloud. communication at its best.
i sorted through some of the most brilliant comments i’ve heard in recent days to choose an apt quote for this little guy. i decided to pick the one that is most obvious, the no-duh-est, the thing people who do-as-i-say-not-as-i-do often say. i agree wholeheartedly with chipface. communication IS the biggest thing in any relationship. and lack of communication – with its undercurrents – makes fools of all of us.
christopher wool holds nothing back. his work is stark and transparently void of flowery language. the piece pictured below – “fool” – sold for $7.8 million at a christie’s london sale in 2012. its predecessor “blue fool” sold for just over $5 million and was identical but with blue font. clearly, black is more fashionable than blue. mostly, it makes me laugh aloud to read that someone paid $7.8 million to own the painting of the word “fool”. particularly because christopher is said to not “suffer fools” and his pushback on people must be rampant. i do wonder if you’d only hang this seasonally – say, on april fool’s day – or if it is a piece for the year round…as a reminder…a humbling…a nudge.
david and i attended a talk in chicago between christopher wool and a docent at the art gallery. in pure christopher wool tongue-in-cheek deliciousness, after the docent went on and on about the premise behind one of wool’s photography pieces, after she touted his possible psychological state and the philosophical underpinnings of his work, he shrugged, looked at the audience and – advancing his relationship with that audience by leaps and bounds – merely said, “i took the photograph because i liked it.”
communication at its best. yes. truth. pure and simple.
mid-december. we are hiking. our favorite local trail that we know so well. carols are playing in my head as i sort through the christmas tasks yet to do, a little shopping left to finish. we round the bend and there – stretching in long shadows from a low sun across amazingly-green-green grass – is a music staff of lines.
if there is any season that is closely associated with music, it is this. the shadow-staff pushes my focus into memories as we walk.
i am deep into advent preparations back there in the recesses of thought. it’s been a bit since i have allowed myself to really think about it. in my last position as a minister of music i brought three decades of experience, the wisdom absorbed from many congregations, intuition gleaned as a stage artist and performer, and a heart full of dedication to the community. though it may not seem apparent to a churchgoer (or any religious institution attendee) the research and time that a music director will undertake for the music in that venue is immense. when it is well done, there is more to it than assigning a few songs to a few slots in a service.
the other day we had old-fashioneds with our dear friends. we stood at their kitchen counter and jen brought out a new recipe along with a very nice bottle of bourbon and deluxe cherries and an orange, complete with pre-cut curly peels for the side of the glasses and swizzle sticks. it was lovely – an experience in itself – we celebrated our time together in this season. as we each took sips following her cocktail-making, she looked up and said, “wow. this is really bourbon-forward!”. it was too much, too strong, too bourbon-ego, too solo. yowza! to continue to sip on a bourbon-forward old-fashioned can leave you cold to old-fashioneds in the future; it may even kill your yen for an old-fashioned. it will definitely undermine your bartending je ne sais quoi and the bar you are serving may suffer from your mixology. we all laughed and added some squirt to tone it down, swizzle-sticking to perfection. and suddenly – with jen’s good instincts – an exquisite old-fashioned, all ingredients integrated!
this morning we listened to the song that i am attaching to this post. it’s called “you’re here” and i wrote it while i was rehearsing the choir for the christmas cantata i arranged in 2019. it was recorded on an iphone sans proper mics with an out-of-tune church piano, so it’s pretty raw tape (so to speak). the thing it reminded me was of my approach as a minister of music.
for me, any notes on a music staff in a church need be about resonance. how might i help the people there connect with their faith, that which cannot be seen, that which is fragile and strong, that which elicits love and joy and many questions, and that which tethers us to each other in the community? any worthy minister of music knows that is fluid and knows that each year in their work will bring more answers. this is not something you start out knowing. it is a practice and one must be humble enough to be learning from those around you, honing as you go. one must bring one’s game – professionalism, collaboration and service-oriented, stellar learned gut on-the-fly flexibility, tenderness and sensitivity in delivery, the innate ability to shape a worship service and its emotional journey, the buoying of others, joy-joy-joy of creating music and emotion together, the integration of every musical gift you have been given. and love. it’s what you put forward.
because i had never experienced it – ever- before – in any position i held, there are days i still wonder about being fired – particularly in the middle of a global pandemic – particularly after eight years tenure there. wondering, even now – three years later. especially at christmastime. because in every way i knew how – in the music programming of any church in which i was involved or employed – i was the squirt in the old-fashioned.
oh well. in the words of john o’donohue, “upheavals in life are often times when the soul has become too smothered; it needs to push through the layers of surface under which it is buried….it reminds us that we are children of the eternal and our time on earth is meant to be a pilgrimage of growth and creativity.”
i get these specific emails – practically every day. they are from some church-administrative-oriented website. the latest emails address church staff and salaries. oh my! what a can of worms that is. though i don’t usually open them, i was forced to one day – the devil made me do it. the email was called “why fair compensation matters” and the first lines in the email read, “we believe when those employed to service in the church are paid adequately and fairly, they’re free to focus on their ministry work. the result? freedom from financial burdens and a flourishing ministry.” flourishing. it makes me think of green grass on the trail – even in december – despite all odds.
yes. yes. just as in choice of bourbon – or, for that matter, bartenders – you will get what you pay for, what you value. remember – you are about your customers and their experience – the community in your seats and on your barstools. skimp at the bar and the reputation for your old-fashioneds will get you in the end. likewise, the thing you don’t want in your place of worship? the bourbon-forward director. it’s too much, too strong, too bourbon-ego, too solo. not enough squirt.
it is truly about what you put forward – in your life, in your work, in love – and how you smush it all around, integrating it, with a swizzle stick.
merry advent from my place off the bench, sans baton.
there is no way to maneuver the depth of field on my old iphone. it is all about coming in closer and backing up – eyeing what is framed in the aperture and moving to adjust what i want the photograph to look like. i know that the newer iphones have some access to depth of field options but – at the moment – i don’t have access to a newer iphone option. so. i adjust.
i almost rejected this photograph as a melange post. with the closest red dogwood branch a bit out-of-focus it didn’t really meet my parameters for a post. and then i stopped to reconsider it. it’s a great visual reminder of how distorted things can look from up close.
clarity is something that comes when you put a little space between you and the issue or object of your attention. 20 always says, “you’re too close!” and it’s impossible to not hear his voice in my head now in the throes of any decision. and so i try to remember to back up a little, to have some distance as i consider – an overview.
when d was working for a new software startup (before the business was unfortunately closed) their product was the perfect tool for clarity. after i understood even the most basic functions of this remarkable software – as they were looking for names – i kept blurting out suggestions like “pinnacle” or “eagle eye” or “lookout” or “apex”. it seemed obvious to me that having this incredible overview – a step back – was the perfect new software for people struggling to make sense of too much up close and personal…a pragmatic way to sort and prioritize…a realistic way to have perspective. it’s beyond my wildest imagination that they did not continue on their merry way into software stardom. but alas, such is life, eh?
anyway, that lookout tower approach has its wisdom. it’s like pulling into the overlook in the appalachia region on route 25e in tennessee. up until that moment – in the middle of them – you were aware that there were mountains but you were seeing them from too close to really appreciate the grandeur. you drive into the overlook, step out of your vehicle, walk to the retaining wall and you are stunned by the magnificence of how the whole world drops off beyond your feet, stretching on and on and on. and you can see – there are mountains and lakes and a river – things you could not discern from up close.
in the middle of the middle stepping back is one of the ridiculously hardest things to do. it feels counter-productive when you are trying to come to some sort of conclusion or have some kind of perspective about a specific thing. but up close and personal, the red dogwood is blurry and i can’t appreciate its stunning beauty. from a little distance away, i can see how it plays against the warm beige of the grasses and cattails, how it enhances the fallow of this meadow.
in this crazy-busy time of year – with people rushing around trying to make the holidays perfect for themselves and others – i’m thinking that maybe we are all a little too close. i’m reminded again and again of what is most important. i’m taking in serenity as i can. we are trying to go slow – to appreciate the big picture – to not be clouded by that which is hard to sort or discern or, for that matter, even clearly see.
yes, the red dogwood is blurry up close. but from a little distance it stands out in a field barren of much color. the dissonance fades. the chord resolves. there is clarity.
it would appear that nature is decorating for the holiday season. even in the browns and tans and greys of the fallow, color bursts out at us. it’s stunning. the honeysuckle is unmoved though – it is standard fare in the winter to be berried. we, however, stop to appreciate it.
we decorated early this year. right around thanksgiving we put up our eileen-tree (which we named “e.e.”), pulled out the mini-trees i love to place everywhere, added twinkling white lights and silver ornaments. there are snowflakes and pinecones from the forest floor and heartfilled nods to my children-in-younger-days and my scandinavian heritage. we unearthed the boxes of vintage glass ornaments and shiny brites from my sweet momma and poppo and placed those ever-so-gently on the happy-light-lit big branches we now have year-round in the living room. it looks like christmas.
each day goes by faster now it seems. and then it’s friday again. i’m not sure where the time goes. as we make our holiday cards and a few handmade gifts to send out, george winston’s december is on repeat – the quiet of this album is speaking to us this season. bombastic christmas or vocal-gymnastic-laden carols seem like too much noise. restraint seems more in line with our spirits. more serenity.
there are many festivities to choose from – out there. we thought about a concert or two and lingered back. we thought about a holiday festival or two and lingered back. we thought about stores and crowds and lingered back. we will finish making our cards and creations and do a bit of boutique shopping. we may make a cookie or two. the krumkake of ages past nudges us and sip and feast taunts us with a long island italian almond cookie (gluten-free). we sit under blankets in a darkened living room – lit only by happylights. we savor the sparkle. we sit in content silence, we tell stories of past holidays – wistful, tearing up, laughing, lost in memories and hopes for future holidays.
and there is the woods.
whenever we can, we take time out there. the forest reminds us of both the everpresence and the evanescence of it all. it reminds us of the passing of time, the changing of seasons, adjusting to harsh circumstances and it reminds us of the rejuvenation and renewal of spring. we know that beyond the cold and frozen, there will be warmth. it’s all fluid and some things – like transition – are certain. there is silent wisdom – of the ages – you can feel as you place your feet – emanating from the dirt of the trail.
it is no wonder that nature has already decorated – with quiet fervor and vivid color – for the holidays.
“if what one has to say is not better than silence, then one should keep silent.” (confucius)
and then there’s the other side of the coin – the side where silence is not golden.
silence doesn’t stop injustice. it doesn’t stop bullying. it alludes to apathy and indifference, even complicity. it is a ship in a harbor. it is safe. it is spineless.
speaking up – of truth – is not babbling. it is not the proliferation of lies, of the made-up. it does not propagate agenda nor does it perpetuate a culture of the unquestioning. it screeches falsity to a halt; it brings focus to ambiguity; it stands up.
we choose our course. we choose what is or is not important to us. we look to others for wisdom and the ability to sort our path. we make errors in judgment; we keep quiet. we learn. we find our voice.
for me, cousin jerry’s t-shirt said it all: “SPEAK UP!”
because:
“silence becomes cowardice when occasion demands speaking out the whole truth and acting accordingly.” (mahatma gandhi)
“if you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. if an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.” (archbishop desmond tutu)
“we must always take sides. neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” (elie wiesel)
“each time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, withoutclaiming it, she stands up for all women.” (maya angelou)
“in the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” (dr martin luther king jr)
“you own everything that happened to you. tell your stories. if people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” (anne lamott)
“each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope.” (robert f kennedy)
“do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” (the golden rule)
“speak your truth quietly and clearly.” (max ehrmann)
with a modicum of tact, with compassion for those who have been wronged, with courage and vulnerability and timidity holding hands-hands-hands, standing in the fire of what is truth-telling, there is hope.
reverse threading 