it becomes clear looking down the trailmarker. the clearest place – with the most clarity in focus – is the very middle. it blurs on the edges, in the foreground and that section which is furthest away. but the middle. clear enough to see the drying grain of the wood. clear enough to see the tiny spores of lichen. lichen in the foreground. lichen furthest away. all blurry. but clear – there – in the middle.
lichen is a symbiotic partnership – it is a mutualistic relationship of fungus and algae, living together. lichen are not parasitic – they thrive, but do not feed on others. instead, they depend intimately on each other for survival, getting nutrients from the air, trapping particulates, absorbing small pollutants – their very presence an indicator of air quality.
lichen are tolerant of extremes and resilient in growth. they are considered a biomonitor in assessing the health of the environment in which they dwell.
we approach the trailmarker. it’s a sunny day, beautiful really. we are on our way back to the trailhead. it’s been miles of hiking.
we are refreshed and tired, both. we are happy to be together on this path. it is familiar and, this time, we don’t need the marker to know where we are or how far we have to go.
but the markers are there – in most of the trails we hike. some are less obvious, like cairns in the high mountains. they help us find the way, help us know – more clearly – where we are. even if what was before is fading and what is ahead is blurry and unknown, the trailmarker gives us a bit of certainty in the moment – the only certain thing.
the lichen draws my attention – soft greens and mustard yellows. i wander over to the marker to photograph it. i don’t know a lot about lichen so i google it later.
their place in the world – these tiny organisms – is astounding. their ability to co-exist, their thriving together, how integral they are in giving back – all inspiring.
apparently, they are a little more pure, higher up on the love-one-another chain than humans.
i was the one. probably the one and only. the single person in the entire school who opened up my re-purposed hallmark card store bag to reveal a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich. now, if that isn’t bad enough, add to it the irreversible damage that this wrought: carrying a cucumber sandwich or liverwurst and mayo on smushy white bread wrapped in waxed paper. i mean, who eats this in elementary school or junior high or even high school??? it’s like that scene in my big fat greek wedding with the mean girls around toula portokalos taunting her lunch, “moose kaka???”. yes, irreversible damage.
and so, i have a thing about wax paper. this is probably not wax paper’s fault. it was innocently birthed in 1927 and has served the general public well. just not me in the school cafeteria.
while everyone else was flaunting their plastic sandwich bags – with their deli-ham-and-cheese sandwiches complete with prepackaged bags of chips and ho hos or twinkies – there i was – with my savory liverwurst on bread soggy with mayonnaise, an apple and, if i was really lucky, a prized yodel. there was no comparison. it was crushing.
so, the wax paper in the drawer in the kitchen comes with a little ptsd. it comes in handy, yes. but i’ll never ever wrap a sandwich with it. ever.
i think it was $250. that is the number that sticks in my mind. the amount of money my sweet poppo spent on the family’s very first calculator. way back when.
now, $250 was a lot back then. it still is. but my dad wanted us to have this newfangled device with which we could add, subtract, multiply and divide to our heart’s content, sans paper and pencil. it was a pretty exciting time and we all felt inordinately lucky to be living in such a technological world. wow.
my big brother was the one who made an abacus for me. in searching through bins in the basement and the attic i was hoping to stumble upon it. but no abacus to be found. amazingly enough, i even knew how to use the abacus.
and then, it was, again, my brother who showed me how to use a slide-rule. he was a surveyor for a time, so it was a tool of his trade. and anything my brother used, i wanted to use. he was that kind of idolized big brother. i’ve come across several slide rules in boxes and pencil cases. i’d have to refresh to figure out how to use them. i’m just certain that my treasured high school math teacher would be proud were he to know how attached i still am to these pre-calculator devices.
the stick on the trail somehow brought all of this to mind. linking-thinking, my dear friend heidi calls it. as we approached it, it just simply screamed “number line” to me. it appeared that each little branch nub was placed exactly the same distance apart. it immediately brought me back to number lines i’ve created in the past…for history classes or for math or for one of those “describe your life” timeline projects that have you looking back and then looking ahead. plotting on the line the ponderous things that have happened in your life that have in turn impacted your life.
i stopped to take photographs of the stick and got lost in plot-my-life-on-the-number-line thoughts. i’ve been doing a lot of looking-back and this stick would come in handy as a visual.
somewhere on that stick it would show our first calculator. somewhere before that it would show the abacus and the slide-rules. somewhere later it would show a first computer. and then, subsequent computers, laptops, ipads, cellphones. it’s easy to place stuff on the number line.
what’s much harder to place is the impact of moments in your life. but for one decision, one meeting, one event, the rest of the number line would be entirely different. it’s profound.
in the way that – in elementary school – you would draw a curved line – to the right – under the number line to show addition or a curved line – to the left – under the number line to show subtraction, it is much harder to reflect – with a simple curved line – the entire impact one nub on the stick might have had on you. though one might try to reflect the way one nub informed the rest, it is nearly impossible to wrap all impact into a few curved lines.
in fact, the number line, the abacus, the slide-rule, the early-bird calculator – none of them can calculate all that.
standing on the trail, mid-photo-shoot with the stick, i realize that it is likely we cannot actually portray ourselves – our lives – on a number line. it occurs to me that – because life and heart and soul are like this – we are living many nubs concurrently – backward and forward – all at the same time. no nub stands alone. each is altered and informed by all the others.
parsley and rosemary. in what would seem their prime, it was time to harvest, for another frost might damage them and a freeze most certainly would. we covered them – along with the basil and the mint and the lavender – but it’s november and it’s wisconsin, so it was time to make some other choices. because it’s what we do, i researched. and then, with snippers, went out and snipped off stems, laying them gently on a cookie sheet so that i might freeze them and pull them out mid-winter to use: fresh herbs in the winter from our own potting stand will remind me that spring will, yes, arrive again.
and yes, i know it’s simple to run to the grocery store and pick up a fresh bundle of parsley and one of those little plastic containers of rosemary. but there is something to be said for these herbs that we grew, that gave us so much joy to watch as they flourished this summer. we simply bought them at lowe’s, planted them in good soil in good old clay pots, placed them in the sun, watered them as needed. and we celebrated them as they grew. mighty and strong.
it’s a little like children. you try your best to plant them in good soil, in solid but permeable pots, expose them to the sun and nutrients as they need them. and they flourish. and one day you are watching your daughter fly down the biggest mountain run in summit county – one of the highest inbound ski terrains in north america – on a snowboard, her skills generously coaching and instructing others. and another day you are watching your son’s hands fly across the mixer board, spinning electronic dance music, bringing elation – even rapture – to beautiful people expressing the freedom and joy of living. and then another day and another and another…mighty and strong.
it’s good dirt, a good pot, sun, nutrients. celebration.
and a whole lot of love.
maybe next year we’ll also plant sage and thyme – to complete the old folk song that goes through my mind every time i think of parsley and rosemary.
the shaggy manes clustered in front of the stage. it was a crowded mosh pit and there was no allowance for height. they were all just smushed in there, trying to see in-between pogo-ing to the music.
i couldn’t tell who the artist was. i was simply watching the audience reaction. it was clear to me that this was big. the artist had drawn a large crowd and all the shaggy manes were jazzed to be there. with rapt attention, they engaged in the concert, though all i could hear was silence. they were still there when i left, still standing, still moshing.
we create – paint, draw, compose, write, mold clay, cartoon, dance, act – for the shaggy manes in the world who wish to engage in our art form and, also, for the shaggy manes in the world who do not. we are noisy. we are silent. whether they walk away, stand quietly or pogo-mosh is not up to us. it is only up to us to put it out there. after that, we have no control. no machinations can force our work to resonate with a shaggy mane.
and as our work floats about in the universe – gaining or losing momentum, either – we trust that following the imperative is what we can do, what we must do.
and i am reminded – time and again – even if one shaggy mane gets it – one shaggy mane is moved – one shaggy mane is changed, even for a moment – then i have done my work.
well enough – is not quiiiite there. well enough – is under the bar. well enough – is status quo. well enough – is not really trying. well enough – saves time. well enough – is not holding life as a tiny flame in all the universe.
fine – is not quiiiite there. fine – is under the bar. fine – is status quo. fine – is not really trying. fine – saves time. fine – is not holding life as a tiny flame in all the universe.
i suppose there are many who really love leaving well enough alone. it doesn’t push any limits. it doesn’t poke at false bars. it doesn’t question. it doesn’t hold accountability as a north star. it doesn’t sort and ponder and ruminate. its tolerance is dubious. it’s easier.
and then, there are the other tomatoes.
those are the tomatoes in the bunch that won’t suffer well-enough. these tomatoes poke and prod. these tomatoes ask questions, research, study, extrapolate, piece together something better. these tomatoes make other tomatoes crabby.
though we take turns with the existential questions of life, he is the one who asks most of the ones – aloud – that are -sometimes annoyingly – foggy. the kinds of questions that require lengthy, long-winded, circular, pondering dissertations, steeped-in-wisdom-devoid-of-wisdom yada-yada, first-person-experience tales, prolonged dialogue, yin-yanging polar opinions, all the reddiwip of solid answers.
i find myself – in these moments – thinking of the practical, the reassuringly tactile, the basic. the homemade chicken soup.
and we are witnesses. to the thistle. to the meadow. to this slice of the earth.
we watch, as time passes. we note changes, dramatic and subtle. we are aware of the nuances of these moments – transitory. we are inside the ephemeral.
we are intentional; we fritter away.
and the thistle is witness to us as we stand still – for little bits of a while – in admiration. our gaze is focused, memorizing beauty, not questioning the randomness of our attention.
just holding it all in wonder. just perceiving the glorious. just unmoving and moved.
sharing this space of time – together – within the perpetuity of it all, what do the thistle, the meadow, this slice of earth see – looking back at us?
neither orange nor red are my favorite colors. but as i glance down nearby, i see two pencils – one a red mechanical pencil and one an orange colored pencil. they are the closest to me and, because i am a pencil person, i’ve been using them for days.
i remember many years ago, my son mentioned that some day he would like a montblanc pen. it’s pretty funny how a little time changes things. now, i’m quite sure, he would not care to have a montblanc; as a matter of fact, i’d bet he wouldn’t care about any brand of pen – even a bic for that matter – as he rarely writes down anything on paper. it is a generation – now grown-up – sans the need of paper, sans the need of pencils, sans the need of fancy-pens.
i’m not sure how i could function without pencils or pens. or, for that matter, notebooks and pads. i am a lover of paper and all things analog, while at the same time also loving the digital world and its conveniences. (take this blog, for instance.)
i have a box of fifty colored pencils that is brand new. it was a gift, along with an adult coloring book – if you haven’t tried this activity, don’t knock it. it’s zen-like coloring pages. i haven’t yet used these new pencils because i have older pencils and didn’t want to use up the new sharp points. ahh, i am my mother’s daughter.
the other day i took out the new tin of pencils and just gazed at the array of color – all beautifully laid out in a spectrum. i suddenly realized that it might be time to try them out. because after taking this photograph of this amazingly beautiful bush out on the trail, i could see that crayola wasn’t going to touch the nuances of staghorn sumac orange and red and yellow. i could see that it would be impossible to shade all the variations – rich – prayer flags burning a place into my memory. i could see that maybe fifty won’t be enough. there’s a set of 72, of 174, of 220, even 520 – the montblanc of colored pencils.
and i could see – gazing at this sheer beauty – i guess i like orange and red a little more than i thought. there’s more to them than meets the eye.
“to so much of the world, solitude is strange.” (anna quindlen)
i always thought i was an extrovert. i enjoy people and social gatherings of all sorts. back a ways had someone asked me if i was an introvert or an extrovert (or the middle-of-the-road-ish ambivert), i likely would have answered “extrovert”. but then…
then i realized that the true way i rejuvenate, the actual place i go to in order to find calm, is inside, into my own space. it hadn’t occurred to me in all my extroversion that i always sought quiet, calm, peaceful in order to re-enter the fray.
in recent times i have been digging through the basement and the attic, opening bins and boxes with journals and composition books, finding diaries and poems, reflections and no-melody-song-lyrics. some of these were written in a tree just outside my growing-up bedroom window. some of these were written in a tiny basement apartment with wallpaper that looked like red brick. some of these were written in a converted garage and some in a new home in the sun. they are decades old. and they make it clear that i have always sorted to a place of quiet to recharge, to reflect, to express.
this photograph is one of my recent favorites. its bare minimalism speaks to me. one leaf, alone.
artists, sensitive to the ambient, the nuance, the emotional, resonate with everything around them, vibrations conscious and unconscious. individually, in the context of our medium, we ask and answer the questions that pummel our hearts, a call and response to beauty and understanding. and then, the leaf.
the one leaf, alone, stood out. red against the camel-taupe-tan of the trail. i stopped.
if there is no other photograph in all my photographs that speaks to the uniqueness, the singularity, identity, the one-ness of humankind, then this might be the one.
though none of us exist in a vacuum – and the spectrum of introvert and extrovert stretches like a red rock canyon – each of us is – at our core – one leaf, alone. there is a distinct simplicity in that.
reverse threading 