it never fails to amaze me. even the familiar turn in the trail. even the familiar trees. even the angle of the sun which has shone on us so many, many times here. even the sky, this midwest sky, sometimes ornery, sometimes brilliant. still. still, i love this curve of path. still, i love these tall pines. still, i love the tease of sun through the highest branches of needles. still, all of it.
in a world that presents unexpecteds every day – some of which are more difficult than others of which are tiny or enormous gifts – there is this. there is the still-all-of-it.
and so we go here. and we process life here. we are silent and we talk-talk-talk. this woods has kept us company through it all. this path has led us when our feet didn’t know where to go. these trees have wrapped us in scent and held us in strength, towering over us. this sky has graced us with all weather.
and we have always arrived back at the trailhead, safe. we have been freezing and sweltering. we have been covered with snow and sopping wet. we have been exhilarated and bone-achy tired. but we have always been safe.
so it shouldn’t really surprise me. this place is a haven, a sanctuary, shelter for our hearts and minds. i imagine one day – if we might live elsewhere and no longer hike in this place – we will look back, remembering and reminiscing. and we will nod our heads and agree – yes…it was all of it, all of that place. every single time.
“when she stopped conforming to the conventional picture of femininity she finally began to enjoy being a woman.”(betty friedan – national organization for women co-founder)
ripped jeans and boots are – most often – my dress of choice. i add a black thermal shirt or a long (black) tunic and feel like me. it’s my dopamine dressing, regardless of the colors, textures, ensembles on the dopamine charts.
my studio is not large. it’s one of the bedrooms on the main floor – in the front of the house. there are three double-hung windows – two of which face south – so nice light. there’s a chiffarobe holding a big old black-framed window, pictures of my parents displayed. there’s tin on the wall with photos of my children. there’s a painting by david and two framed collages with my first two albums. there’s a photo of me as a little girl, a rocking chair, music stands and mic stands. and there’s my piano. it’s a 6’5″ yamaha grand so it’s a presence.
and now – over in the corner opposite my bench – hangs this lampshade. i suppose it could be used as an actual on-a-lamp lampshade, but ever since i saw fabric-repurposed lampshades hanging in that iowa farmhouse we stayed at, i have been intrigued by the simple hanging of a lampshade. and so, a couple days after the new year, while out antiquing, we came upon this shade. it was hanging in the middle of a vendor’s booth, with no price tag. it wasn’t for sale. but – like the chunk of concrete – this spoke to me.
its femininity was appealing. torn strips of silk and organdy, a feathered hairclip, i was smitten by it. i could imagine it in my studio – softening the straight lines of plaster walls and crown molding. it felt – forgive me for this generalization – girly. in every good way.
i asked at the front checkout about it and the sales associate and i took a walk back to it. she double-checked, looking for a tag. it looked like it was there to dress up the booth. and, indeed, it did. it was charming.
we left without it, but the associate said she would contact the vendor and let me know the lampshade’s status: available/notforsale. my concern was that even if were available – or if the vendor made it available based upon my desire for it – the demand-cost equation might enter in and it would be out of my range (which, frankly, most things are).
the next day i got a text. $15. i re-read the text. $15. i wrote back, double-checking. surely it wouldn’t be only $15 for me to bring home this piece of softness – this very cool boho shade that reminded me of all the layers of who i am.
i wore – as usual – my ripped jeans and boots, a vest over my black thermal shirt. we walked in and the lampshade – the lampshade waiting for me – was on the counter.
there was a group of women standing near the checkout counter, all talking at once. they glanced over at the lampshade, admiring it, asking me what i was going to do with it. we all laughed together, visiting and having those amazing moments you can sometimes have with a group of women (or people, but in this case it was women) who don’t know each other at all but who all-of-a-sudden have a common interest. the lampshade.
this is a good time in my life for this, for the ripped ribbons of silk and shreds of organdy that flow gently from its structure, for the skeleton of a for-a-lamp shade to have new out-of-the-box purpose, for a reminder of femininity and of who i am.
on the way out, carrying my lampshade as i passed by one of the older women standing nearby, she turned to me and said, “it looks like you.”
sisu is alive and well at the milwaukee art museum. i was thrilled to see the scandinavian design installation. i was pretty sure it would all feel familiar. all my life, i have been surrounded by pieces from scandinavia, finland in particular.
in what is likely a sin-of-casualness, quite some time ago i placed the vintage marimekko dish towel into the kitchen drawer, wanting to use it, to see it more often than the rare times i open up the cedar chest. i took out other finnish linens as well, placing them in regular rotation. they are simpler, organic linens, raw in color. but the marimekko…it’s happiness in a towel.
so when we walked into the room with the brilliant marimekko maija isola’s unikko (poppy) design hanging as a giant banner of fabric, i was inordinately happy. gorgeous and bold, you could stand there for a long time and just soak it in, like sunshine on a bluebird day.
i have many finnish relatives. all delightful and spread about in finland and various other european countries, i haven’t had the pleasure of being in their company since i was eight and my grandmother took me to finland for ten weeks to experience the land of the midnight sun, the sauna and the lake of the northern cabin, the town named after her family – klamila. but, at eight, i wasn’t fascinated by bolts of fabric or designer glass. instead, i pretended there was a horse on the back porch and spent long hours on the porchrail, reins in hand, exploring the wilds of finland. it would do my heart good to meet this branch of family once again.
i knew my sweet momma and my grandmother were cheering as we slowly made our way through the installation. reading all the placards and admiring the simplicity of pieces of silver, of china, of exquisitely designed coffeepots, we had to, of course, veer off the scandinavian path and visit the diebenkorn and the rothko before we left.
the marimekko towel was the next one up in the drawer. i took it out and pondered the feasibility of using such a treasured item. and then i could hear my momma echo my grandmother’s words: of course you should. it’s your roots.
back home-home, my sweet momma had planted bleeding hearts on the east side of our house. there were four-o-clocks there as well; old-fashioned flowers in her garden. we didn’t have any fancy plants – it was otherwise hosta and day lilies, rose of sharon and hydrangea, azalea and forsythia. but, in thinking back, i love her sensibility of these old-timey plants, steadfast through the ages, and anytime i see or plant any of them, i think of my momma.
our trail takes us through the woods. the honeysuckle lines the dirt path and its sweet aroma wafts around us. there’s pink and white, both. and, as i glance over, there is something that makes me think of my momma’s bleeding hearts. we’d plant them in our backyard but for the fact that they are toxic and we don’t want to take any chances with dogdog. so simply being reminded of them will have to suffice.
maybe today we’ll go and get a few flowers at the nursery. we need some to put in a planter on the old chair out back and in the retired firepit vessel. i suppose it’s time – already! – to pick up our basil plant and the cherry tomatoes we love to have on our potting stand. we are heading into summer soon and caprese salads and skewers are beckoning.
honeysuckle is a symbol of pure happiness. i’m pretty sure that four-o-clocks and hosta and day lilies and rose of sharon and hydrangea and azalea and forsythia are as well, though i haven’t looked them up and i’m guessing there’s more meaning for each.
for me, they are walking in my growing-up yard. for me, they are my momma, bent over the garden, deadheading the four-o-clock blossoms and loosening the leathery seeds. for me, they are the light purple buds of the hosta heated by the sun – the ones planted by the garage just off the one-car driveway – just begging for tiny hands to pop them at the end of the afternoon when they were filled with air. for me, they are the giant flowers of my sister’s name (though spelled differently, she would quickly add). for me, they are sitting up in the maple tree with my notebook, writing, gazing down at the garden on the shady side of the house. for me, they are big bunches of dried hydrangeas in the fall. for me, they are delicate hearts lined up on a stem, for i was always fascinated by these. for me, they are so much more than old-fashioned flowers.
for me, they are comfort. for me, they are like old friends.
when i was choosing seats for the elton john concert in north carolina, the – predictably – least expensive seats were the ones with an obscured view. a pillar, a speaker, a wall…something was in front of the seats, not allowing you to see. or maybe the seats were behind the horizon line of the stage, the apron, making elton basically invisible.
clearly these seats – still dang expensive – weren’t right. i mean, if you can’t see him perform and you can’t really see the jumbotron why not just sit and listen to ej cd’s instead? clearly, that’s not the point.
so i stayed away from the obscured-view-seats and chose seats from which we could see all the action. high up, yes. but we could see it all.
we passed a sign in the chicago botanic garden, posted by a tiny trail. “by screening out views and creating hidden areas, this garden entices you to explore just beyond what you can see.” we couldn’t see into the garden…so we took the little trail in. it was beautiful and a little magical. a little secret garden. not obvious. beyond sight.
the work of an artist – of any medium – is like that. find the places just beyond. find the line of melody that tugs, that urges, that compels. bring those places to others so that they might explore them as well. past the horizon. past the stage. you can still hear elton from the obscured-view seats and you can still feel the energy.
in a thirty-plus year career as a minister of music i always felt that it was my job to introduce the obscured secret garden to others. for faith – regardless of denomination – is that which we cannot see, that which we cannot touch. my mission was simply to open hearts through music to see beyond what you can see, to explore beyond sight. grounding in the most basic of tenets – love, kindness, generosity, peace, embrace of all others, support, truth, fairness, equality, grace – i felt it imperative to offer music that might viscerally touch a person who might not otherwise be touched, to hold it all out there gently so that a soul could easily grasp it, hold it, be wrapped in it, be comforted by it. faith in something bigger in this universe is found in a river of changing times and circumstances and staying steadfast is like the path a leaf takes on that river, both raging whitewater and lazy currents. we open our hearts to explore, even though we cannot see.
it might be time to play my piano again. maybe. it’s been a long time – a couple years now, save for a few moments a few times. i haven’t been able to play it – the magic has been obscured from view – since, well, since i felt blindsided. but now…maybe now…finally…i can see the trail into the studio. maybe now the black and white notes lifting into the air – will heal hurting even just a little, will allow exploration and sight beyond the obvious tangible horizon, will open a heart again.
the threads are stretching, stretching…but not ripping.
barney stretches and yawns, still a piano, always a piano. his soul – tenacious and flexible and resilient – centering back to itself, despite weather, despite weathering. it’s late day and the shadows are long. there are small mounds of birdseed, assorted fallen leaves, bits of white at the leading edge of the keyboard. no matter. his aging exterior belies the zeal inside of him, the sorting of memories being played, sustain pedal lifting notes into the air and holding them there. barney has come to knowing that all the notes are still there – stretched across the atmosphere, lingering. he is not fearful of this process in the sun and the rain, snow and blustering winds.
“if you let your fears control your actions, then you are not going 100 mph through it, enjoying it.” (sue aikens)
barney does little these days. he is home for wildlife, the birds, the chippies, the squirrels – they know him well. but he is still going 100 mph through it, whirling and dancing in his beautiful body in our backyard. one day he will look even less like an upright.
but the chickadees and house finches, the cardinals and robins will glance over at him and think, “there’s that sweet piano.” for they, too, will still recognize him.
we cleaned the garage. now, this is not my favorite chore. there are spiders in the garage. lots of them. and they peer out at me, lurking, waiting for me to walk by, so that they can drop down a line and swing right in front of my face. their decibel-tolerance for closed-mouthed-screams must be vast, for they elicit many of these from me as they plot and scheme, surprising me.
regardless, we cleaned the garage.
david went in first, broom held in front of him, sweeping as he stepped. in a gallant move, he tried to clear the way for me. his heroics helped; there were fewer surprises as we worked.
our garage is old – like our house – and nails are pounded into the exposed 2x4s to hold bagchairs and hoses and the bike pump and various gardening tools. in one of my best organizing-learnings about a decade back, there is an old tall plastic garbage can in the corner which holds things like shovels and rakes and a fence-post-hole-digger and a metal thing i can’t identify but which seems important. there are two bikes hanging from the ceiling. and up above on wood laying across the rafters, like a mini attic, there is a red tricycle (pause for an “awww”), an old red wagon (repeat), a few old doors and a rooftop turtle that has a big dent in it from when – a few decades ago – we drove into a parking garage late at night forgetting it was up there on top of the bronco. oopsies.
like anything else i do, it was a time of revisiting stories.
the best thing in the garage is the volkswagen. our 1971 super beetle is tucked in, while littlebabyscion and big red suffer the elements. tenure counts here.
we finished cleaning, triumphantly and without any horror, and sat on the deck with a gorgeous saturday afternoon stretching out in front of us. i poured two glasses of white wine and brought out a snack, some brown paper bags, scissors, a few rocks and some paint. time to have some fun.
because we have been the grateful recipients of gift-rocks-on-the-trail we decided to leave some of our own. story of our lives, come to find out there are better tools for this than the ones we had. we had dollar store paint and brushes. those didn’t work. we moved on to david’s good acrylic paints from his studio and the dollar store brushes. these worked better, but didn’t yield precise lines. we found out later that there are real live paint pens – ones you can paint rocks with. they draw precise lines and tiny little scenes. (well, you draw them, they just make it all a possibility.) we’re going to get us some of those, i say.
in the meanwhile, our rough-hewn works of rock-art will have to do.
the next day, we hid the first round of rocks the first time we walked the loop on our trail. by the second time around, some of them were gone. i guess rough-hewn was acceptable.
reverse threading 