daisies were on my shopping list. our daughter was coming into town and i wanted some fresh flowers on our table and in her room. so, daisies are our go-to.
but the pink tulips caught my eye. long slender stems and the palest pink buds, i could feel my whole body slow down gazing at them.
every time i look at them it feels the same way.
the buds never opened. yet, the tulips are still proudly standing tall, ten days later. it is an image of potential. a visceral right-in-front-of-us portrayal of stately beauty. or maybe it’s an image of choice – of taking a different road. these tulips are stunning. and it is not in their blossoming open.
both of us artists, i can tell you there are many, many unopened buds. they stack in corners and in notebooks, in the recesses of our minds, on our laptops. they are pale pink and soft. they are deep-red and fiery. they wait for their moment.
and some buds don’t open. i read those buds may have faced a particularly cold winter, or had too much — or too little — exposure to heat and sunlight. i’d add that they may have had naysayers naysaying at them. they may be competing for sun with other buds, other flowers, other ideas.
or maybe they just like it that way. as buds. standing tall and quiet, emanating peace and tranquility.
every time i have looked at these pink tulips i have thought about their color. i have imagined it on a wall – the palest pink – with white crown moldings and trim. never having had a pink wall, i’ve wondered about how it might feel to be in such a room. i’ve wondered if it might feel the way it feels gazing at these buds.
i’m cheering our tulips on for another few days, maybe even another week. i want to keep them around. they are making me breathe differently. they are giving me pause. they are making me imagine.
and maybe that’s the point. it’s not always about the blossom.
i would be lying if i told you i didn’t cry at the string shop.
i did cry. i’m crying now.
i am a professional pianist. a composer. proudly a yamaha artist with an intensely beautiful C5 in my studio and fifteen albums plus of vulnerability out in the world. i play the guitar and the ukulele. i dabbled on the trumpet in college for five minutes or so. but, oh…the cello.
the moment i touched my cello i had a bond with it. and, holding the idea close of learning to play mournfully heart-draining melody lines, i purchased it. because artists dream, i played.
but reality is reality.
and now – with 45° of wrist forward range of motion – my cello needed a new home. it’s just a fact.
i held onto it long after i knew this. it’s hard to let go a dream. and i’ve never before sold a beloved instrument.
yet, cellos – like all instruments – need to be loved on: played, listened to, tweaked, played more. a paesold, german-made, warm and resonant in tone, it begged to come out of the corner of my studio. though i tried to ignore it, it is like ignoring the stare of an australian shepherd who clearly wants you to do something (and we have experience with this). so my cello kept staring at me and staring at me. even without entering my studio – for i have not spent much time in there in these most recent years – i could feel the stare of the cello through the wall.
until finally.
i know this cello is valuable. yet, the string shop i sold it to – for much less than its value – was full of string music and luthiers working, a performance space and a full marching line of cellos on the wall. it will not be lonely as it waits to be re-homed.
the shopowner knew how hard it was for me to sell this cello, to leave it behind, to leave at all.
i touched its maple and spruce, exquisitely varnished. i spoke to my cello. and i blew it a kiss as we left, entirely and utterly choked-up.
and i wondered how my cello-dream might morph into something else.
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though i know it won’t really matter to either of them, i’ll hang a pair of tiny overalls and a pair of tiny first-walking-shoes on a peg in each of their rooms.
i was deep in memories going through and washing all of their infant and toddler clothing. touching each and every piece, i kept thinking, “surely he/she would want me to save this!!”. i seriously pondered making them quilts out of their childhood clothing, sure that they would treasure these. until i realized something.
it’s me who remembers these tiny clothes. it’s me who remembers my little girl – tucked into her bear chair – a stack of books next to her, absorbed. it’s me who remembers my little boy – kneeling on the road rug with buildings and streets and stop signs, matchbox cars lined up or zooming with his little hand. they were tiny toddlers with no real thought about memorizing forever and ever what they had on. i’m the one who remembers what they were wearing. i’m the one who remembers the onesies, the sleepers and the footie pajamas. i’m the one who remembers the tiny jeans and turtlenecks. i’m the one who remembers the polly flinders smocked dresses and sweet rompers. i’m the one who remembers the oshkosh overalls.
so i’ll hang the oshkosh b’goshes upstairs anyway. and i’ve decided to hold out just a few items from the big ikea bags that we will deliver to the mission in chicago. and i’ll cut yoyos out of these and make a small yoyo hanging that i can place on a hook in our bedroom. that way, anytime i want to get lost in the memories of my amazing adult children as babies and toddlers, i can touch a little fabric that will bring me back.
they are everywhere. if you are open to them. hearts just sort of show up. it’s our job to notice them.
this one is simply a dogga-fuzz on the quilt. but it’s clearly a heart and i had to take a picture of it before dogdog rolled over and it disappeared forever. a simple symbol. a breath of warm air.
she bought a heart clock in a sweet antique boutique up north a bit. my dear friend is a collector of hearts and this one – well, it was obvious. a small red heart clock with sweetly-fonted numbers and a tiny heart at the end of the hour hand. it’s her. and i really love that about her. she surrounds herself with hearts and exudes warmth just the way you’d anticipate from someone who has hearts all around her.
i don’t have nearly the number of hearts she has, but i have a zillion photographs of hearts. naturally occurring as puddles or stones or leaves. purposely created – hearts in sand, in snow, painted on rocks.
it doesn’t take much to see them. but to stop all action and photograph them is a commitment.
yet, every time i do – stop traffic – stop all movement – stop our hike – stop the dog from rolling over – i feel like the universe smiles. and one more time i am reminded of love. every kind of love, every display of love, every bit of love that surrounds me.
maybe that’s why i notice hearts all the time. to remember just that.
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en pointe, arm in fourth ordinary position, the queen lace stands in late winter. curved seed petal over her head she stands in the brilliant sun, ready to release all the rest, to grow, to start over.
way back in the day, one of my favorite times in each week’s schedule was when my little girl took ballet lessons. she had a pink leotard and tights and tiny ballet slippers. we parents sat on the wood floor in the hallway just outside the entrance to the dance studio, gazing in wonder at our little girls – dancing. tiny ballerinas. the sweetest ballet.
our play group back then gathered in our houses, with a revolving schedule. when we were anywhere near a piano, i’d play music and all the little ones would dance. it was amazing and inspiring to see all these tiny people dancing with abandon. so much joy.
we passed the queen anne’s lace and i could see these tiny dancers as we passed by – arm curved and raised overhead, on tippy-toes, swaying, twirling in the wind.
in my mind i raised my arm up – over my head – and pirouetted around. right there on the trail. what better way to greet the sun of each new day, i thought.
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and, just like thistles, prickly people tend to stick together. at least that’s been my experience.
one wonders what the point of thistles are in the world. what good might they do? the nectar and pollen are of nutritional value to pollinators; the seeds are feed for songbirds. but ouch! the packaging is a bit rough.
sandspurs were a way of life in florida. any time you stood on the swale of the road you would expect to encounter them. they were present on the coast of hilton head too, sticking to the bottom of your flipflops as you walked to the water’s edge. we encounter them on the trail – particularly if you step off, into the underbrush. sandspurs, like thistles, are unwelcome hitchhikers on socks and the bottom hemline of jeans, backpacks you laid down, beachtowels. they are about as prickly as thistles – and about as nasty.
i suppose if people were to assign flora to our personalities, none of us would prefer to be “thistle” or “sandspur”. i’m thinking more along the line of peony or daisy, sunflower or orchid or even cattail or meadow grass. definitely not thistle. definitely not sandspur.
and yet, there are people – out there – who seem to relish their prickliness. maybe it’s to stave off other people. maybe it’s a protective shield of some sort. maybe it’s the result of others’ prickliness to them. or maybe it’s the truth – they are just damn prickly.
and, as we know, thistles attract thistles. nasty attracts nasty. mean attracts mean. sandspur and thistle posses can be powerful, keeping out – repelling – anything softer, anything into which they can sink those stickers.
each day – as we continually learn of the challenges of others – i think that there is not enough time to be prickly, not enough time to be nasty like that, not enough time to be unkind, not enough time to be uncaring. we barely have enough time to be loving, to be kind, to care about those around us, to have compassion for those we don’t know.
and despite the many advantages of the thistle, the many advantages of the sandspur, i’m thinking that an outer shell that may or not may belie inner goodness is kind of a waste of precious time. it may be good for the underbrush, good for the meadow, but it’s not so good for humankind.
i could feel it as we entered the woods. even in the cold. even on a mucky trail. especially in the damp fog. it wrapped around me, my body relaxed and i could breathe.
we are in the middle of a lot. like you, life swirls and dips and is taking us places we didn’t expect. like you, we don’t sign up for the angsts, the challenges, the aloneness of some of it. but it is there, nevertheless.
it’s in those times – in the fermatas of those times – that we need be in the cathedral. for us, that means stepping into the bowed trees in this forest, their very branches arching over us. for us, that means walking, hiking, trekking in the quiet. it’s then that i can hear.
and perspective – arriving on glorious air – reminds me. of my smallness in all of this. of an imperative to not take every single thing personally. of release and of healing in the mist. of a bigger presence that is indeed wrapping around me. and is always there. silently tapping my shoulder.
i step into the trees and i instantly can feel it – that this is the only day. i can throw it away, like i often have – for we all forget. or i can immerse in it. knowing it is now.
i can’t change – so much – what is. i can’t affect – so much – what will come. i certainly can’t transform what was. and all of that will be waiting for me, after the trail, post-cathedral.
but i’m slowly learning – ever-so-slowly – how to stand in it all. i’m learning how to accept it, how to move in it, how to move through it, how to get to next. sometimes.
the bigger picture – under the cathedral of sky – gives me air and every now and then – just in the nick of time – interrupts my moment of worry and chastens me to feel the right now.
that air is always with us – the exhale of wise old trees and the stardust of those before us.
at the moment i am writing this, i am not in possession of this.
but.
sometime between then and now, i suppose we may go back so that i might get it. for even in the paring-down, giving-away, selling and disposing of artifacts-of-life accumulated along-the-way, i find myself drawn to things here and there…like this counter bell.
maybe there will be a shoppe of some sort some day. maybe that big old barn. maybe a foodtruck called “AND SAUCE” where we will drive all over the countryside and serve up sauce with other stuff – like on a baked potato or roasted veggies or oven-baked sweet potato slices or in a pita or, yes, even on pasta. it’s a fun fantasy – our AND SAUCE foodtruck from sea to shining sea. or maybe & SAUCE – with the ampersand. some things are important to suss out ahead of time, like font and logogram characters. nevermind the business plan and budget. pshaw! regardless of all that, people may need to ding us, using this very bell on the window counter of the truck. i mean, who really knows what can happen?!
in the meanwhile, i’m not sure why we would need a counter bell, though – frankly – i can think of a few purely indulgent reasons. it just appeals to me.
there are brand new bells at staples for merely $3. and there are victorian-like bells on etsy for $30. this bell – though – it has some history. there are stories here. there is no indication where this bell – to get attention – lived. was it in a bakery? in a small market or general store? was it at a used bookstore or a boutique of some sort? was it at the front desk of a hotel or tiny country inn? whatever its story, you can tell it was well-used. there are dings on its old plain galvanized metal. it got some attention.
so, i wonder if purchasing it – having it here – on some counter in our home – might propel forward some of the other things i dream of…projects and products that may have a place in the world, music and books to birth, closely-held ideas to design. new ventures. or old ventures revisited. would the bell help? i don’t know.
i do know this: that just seeing this counter bell at the antique shoppe, just ringing it and giggling at its loud attention-getting ding, just picking it up and holding it, placing it back down on the shelf to ding once again…this has all gotten me to thinking.
“you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. and whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should…” (desiderata – max ehrmann)
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“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.”
it’s like having bob marley on our refrigerator. every single time i glance at this bookmark, i can hear mr. marley and the wailers singing. it’s not a bad thing. i mean, what could be bad about hearing reggae in your head? it’s a reminder: don’t get mired in all the blankety-blank of life. in the end, it will all be ok.
i was gifted the book “don’t sweat the small stuff” decades ago. the book spent 101 weeks on the ny times bestseller list. clearly, the stress consultant/psychotherapist richard carlson had some idea what he was talking about. the rest of the title of his book is “and it’s all small stuff” and the tagline subtitle is “simple ways to keep the little things from taking over your life”. yes. it’s THAT stuff.
we humans tend to immerse in worst-case scenarios – i suppose it’s our nature. and i suppose it depends on all the baggage you have carried with you. it predisposes us and we are burdened by all of it, weighed down by magnifying the things we worry about, convinced every little thing is worthy of our angst.
but then, there are those moments we are reminded – yet again – of the very preciousness of all this – this life.
we have a stack in the basement. there are spare suitcases, backpacks, small carryons, small totes with zippers. baggage that holds baggage. they are in line to go. next to all the other things that don’t spark joy, next to all the other things that are extraneous, next to all the other things that other people might need more than us.
with that stack – little by little – i am placing the baggage i have carried internally. as space is created in the basement, in the main part of our house, in the attic, i am lifting the darkness off other spaces that need air. i have no idea what that will mean, how that will change me in any way, what light i will feel.
but the postcard bookmark at the antique shoppe spoke to me. and we purchased it, brought it home and put it on the refrigerator.
on sunday we parked littlebabyscion in front of big red – closer to the garage on our one-car driveway. it was making a funny noise, so, access to big red instead. then on monday, big red refused to start. tuesday morning the browser on my old laptop stopped letting me into my blogsite. last night my crown fell off my tooth. the bathroom sink doesn’t drain quite right. the fridge is still tinkling on the floor every so often. and then, there’s much bigger stuff…things that have impacted me or us dramatically…things that we are dealing with…things on which we spend great deals of emotional and intellectual energy. big stuff. or so we think. at least right now.
but there’s also this: we snuggled under the comforter and the quilt with the window cracked and fell asleep last night. we ate leftovers from a meal we had shared with 20, listening to music our son created and the piano music of kostia – both feeding us. our dog is laying on the bed with us, even as i write this. i can hear the tenor windchimes out back. i have a hydroflask from my daughter that is filled with bold coffee at my side. my dentist is making room for me in his schedule. and we are cleaning out. things that center us.
you just never really know. anything.
on page 185 of “don’t sweat…”, chapter 76 is titled “get comfortable not knowing”. richard must have heard bob marley in his head too.
reverse threading 