we’ve spent days now – so far – going through, organizing, cleaning out. it is – in every way – an adventure. the items of life – in retrospect. stuff that tells stories, emotions wrapped around a piece of jewelry, a note, an old flannel shirt.
it’s a slow go. this time – of looking back – is not to be rushed. some things require lingering a bit. i have sat with many a ‘thing’ in my hand, telling d a tale of its arrival in my life, its meaning, where it came from, where it took me, prompts of life lived. some of it is astonishing – things i’d forgotten. some of it is astonishing – things i still remember. some things elicit the “if i only knew then what i know now” response. some things move into the keep category, while others are making their way to join the do-not-keeps. some things i just stare at, wondering what on earth to do with them.
and in some parallel plane – as i pick up each piece o’ life – touching it, feeling it – and then lay it back down – it is as if somewhere i am also picking up each piece of life – touching it, feeling it, laying it back down. this sorting is powerful, not merely tidying up.
and it is gaining momentum.
as we look at the difference it makes, it invites us to keep going and going. deep into the bins and boxes. into the storage room and the attic, the kitchen cabinets, the back of the closet, the file drawers, the desks, the studio. it seems this is the time. this time the cleaning-out will take; the purge won’t simply be a great idea that dissipates into thin air. even with all the hard work – physically and emotionally – this time i can see it.
it’s that way → → →
and while we have no clue what might be out that way – the amorphous – waiting – we move in that direction. we are giving our home, our lives – all of it – the cleanse it all needs – to breathe and to invite in the new.
we waited for it. and the bit o’ sun showed up on christmas morning – after several days of fog. it was a moment of hope – to see that shining orb trying to burn its way through. it didn’t last long – it ended up raining – but it counts that it was there.
i woke early the other morning. snugged under the comforter and the quilt, open window by my side, i could hear birds. it’s unusual to hear them quite so zealous in the winter, but for a few minutes – on this not-as-cold winter dawn – they were there and it was exquisite.
we walked through the antique shoppe and stumbled across the frame of a lampshade tied with bits of muslin, satin and gauze. i was immediately back in the old farmhouse in iowa where several fabric-ed repurposed lampshades hung in a corner. we walked on, but that time-spent surrounded me for a few minutes and i texted the owner of the airbnb – just to let her know about this visceral fondness – the memories. they were there, swirling around me.
some things are indelible. they etch into us as touchstones of comfort. the sun, early-morning birds, memories. they feed us in times of extreme hunger, times when we really need something to hold onto that is somehow tangible even in its fleeting.
and some things are meant to be laid down. they are shadows. they starve us, they compel us into deeper waters where it’s harder to differentiate good from not-good and we feel a bit lost, out to sea. it’s too noisy, too raucous, too frenetic – when we are merely seeking serenity. we work to lay it all down – that which impedes us, which makes us stumble, which blocks us.
in this very first week of the new year i am hoping that this is the year i personally may be able to put a few things to rest. we all have them – those open manila file folders in our heads or hearts. i – like you – yearn to take a sharpie, label them “done”, slap the folders closed and staple them shut.
but even in this rapidly-approaching-medicare age of mine, i know there is work to get there. nothing worth doing is easy…isn’t that the saying? though i don’t have the flip-the-page-a-day-over-the-metal-u-rings-at-a-glance calendar that my sweet momma had, i want to flip the pages over to get there.
we all take out the manila folders and peek inside. it’s a hunger. to get to “done” on those folders and to get to “start” or “start again” on others.
and sustenance helps. the generous. the most basic. even crumbs. even the most transitory, the most evanescent. if it was there – if it fed us – it counts.
and when it comes to the end of the year – already – and we gaze into the shiny brite mirror of the year that has passed, what do we see?
on either december 31 or january 1 we will take out the calendar – the one i write in with mechanical pencil – every day – a few words jotted down, a tale of the day, a meal, a quote, a visit, an appointment, some moment i wish to remember. and we will sit with it in the light of happy lights and christmas trees.
each year it is a journey – through that which we recall and that which we have forgotten. each year we find a treasure. each year we find something courageous. each year we find generosities that have sustained us. each year we find days that were hard and days that were easy. days of strength, days of weakness. we find sadnesses and unexpecteds. we find decisions and repairs. we find frogs and hawks and eagles. we find challenges of spirit and heart. we find recipes that have nourished us.
we head into the new year – just a couple days away now – reflecting, ruminating – with thoughts of what to do differently, what to change, what to let go of, what to hold onto. we wish to be better, do better, feel better. we set intentions.
and – in looking in the mirror – we are harsher than we need be. we forget some of the rest. the moments inbetween all the lines in the calendar. the ordinary. the giving. the grace. the laughter and the light. the things i didn’t jot, didn’t remember to journal, or wanted to just simply let simmer in my heart without being written down.
we wake – in a couple days – in a new year. each day a ridiculously big gift. beyond all else.
“may you recognize in your life the presence, power, and light of your soul…” (john o’donohue)
foresty forest is our new nighttime-video obsession. from the vantage point of our pillows, under a cozy comforter and handmade quilt, with dogga at our feet, the window cracked – all seasons – we watch the youtube life of foresty.
foresty lives in a van that – with a toolbag of skills – he built out into his home. he hails from canada – his accent giving that away – even if his pride in the immense beauty of his native country didn’t. rocko, his jack russell terrier, is his constant and truly incredibly intrepid companion. well, rocko and his ninja aircooker (ever since his treasured crockpot died). foresty’s travels take him high into mountainous areas – both in canada and the states – and he keeps a log of the summits he (and rocko) have successfully completed. he is totally someone you could invite over for dinner – with a sense of humor and a world of stories accompanying him. he has an immense and supportive patreon community and it’s no wonder why. he has simplified his life, focused his intentions, and he brings home everywhere he goes.
one thing – among many things – i have learned from my children is the ability to make home. both of them have moved more times in the last decade than i have moved in my entire life. and yet, each time, they have made it home – any dorm, apartment, condo, house, shared space – roomy, tiny and tinier, all. they have found community and forged friendships; they have created routines and sought out those activities which are important to them. they have created home. in any tree hollow.
“don’t limit yourself to living in your shell. the possibilities are endless.” (a post by susan – with a photograph of snails)
no limits. out of shell. flexibility of spirit. transformation.
dark into light. reflection. the sun rests, stands still. it is the solstice. and then…
in the middle of the hustle and bustle and festivity going on around us, i stand still in the living room. i’m gazing at the shiny brites i grew up with. i turn and see the note that my daughter and son wrote to santa. i turn and see branches from the front yard, from long island, from colorado. i turn and see the pinecones we collected while hiking on our trail a few weeks ago. i turn and see wrapped presents on the table, ready to be shipped or delivered. a timeline of life – the dots pinpointing moments.
we are home at this beloved old house. we are fortunate.
and it is winter solstice. a turning point.
and i know – that sometime out there – the snailshell that has wrapped itself around me will break open. and i will crawl out, stunned by the rays of light and grateful that i can grasp onto their filaments of fiery energy. whatever was dormant will rise with the sun. whatever was painful will ease. whatever was without conclusion will have justice. whatever was dark will be light. whatever is possible will be possible.
and – wherever i go – i will take home with me. i will be home. in any tree hollow.
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.
“… the road is long with many a winding turn that leads us to who knows where, who knows where but i’m strong strong enough to carry him he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
… so on we go his welfare is of my concern no burden is he to bear we’ll get there
… for i know we would not encumber me we ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
… if I’m laden at all i’m laden with sadness that everyone’s heart isn’t filled with the gladness of love for one another
… it’s a long, long road from which there is no return while we’re on the way to there why not share?
… and the load doesn’t weigh me down at all he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
… he’s my brother he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother
(bob russell / bobby scott – he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother)
queen anne’s lace does not bow down under the weight of the snow. it stands – upright – proudly holding what looks like a single-scoop of snowfall. despite the wind, despite the force of gravity – queen anne’s lace bears the burden, singing along with the hollies “and the load doesn’t weigh me down at all…..”
we have a thing or two to learn from nature. long roads, winding turns, shared concern for welfare, love for one another.
we are witness to miracle after miracle out here. they are tiny; they are vast. we stand at the wayside of nature’s rest area – in the fallow that is late autumn and early winter – and we watch as the journey of the woods marches on. working side by side, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, the forest and its inhabitants are thrust onto the long cold road ahead, eventually seeking spring. the ecosystem is symbiotic and nothing is encumbered more than the next. even in any not-knowing, critters and plants and trees alike trudge on, sans complaint. they carry with them the exchange of energy and the work of the fallow. they are strong. and it ain’t heavy. they are brothers-sisters together.
and they are waiting for us – the humans – to catch up to their simple wisdom.
it was as we were hiking that the snow started again. it had already laid down a couple inches and the wind was a bit blustery. and then…
they drifted down around us – as if we were in the middle of a snowglobe and someone had given it a gentle shake. we watched them – individually falling – cold enough to see them land without melting.
most of the time, in landing, they are more en masse – like toddlers playing soccer – a beehive of tinies running after a ball – snowflakes swirling together landing, tumbling, piles of tiny colliding flakes sticking together.
but as i watched, cellphone in hand, this one snowflake – all by itself – landed on this leaf. and the leaf, cold enough to keep the flake intact, held the magic so that i could see it. exquisite doesn’t begin to capture it. sometimes adjectives are so incomplete – superlatives even anemic.
this time, the tiny snowflake held its ground, its unsung miracle-ness distinct against the leaf. i was startled to see it as we stood in the falling snow. i was – also – ridiculously thrilled.
its oneness – this singular the-only-one-there-is snowflake – quiet individuality. its presence – without trumpets blaring or the dinging of any notification – silently suddenly here. its tiny-ness – in this vast world – the same as us. a gift.
we are snowflakes falling. it is up to us to choose how. with or without fanfare, conforming or not, with or without humility, a gift or not.
the des plaines river trail is in several sections. there’s a section that circles round a lake. there’s a section that loops through the forest. and there are sections that run next to the river. in order to control invasive species and to maintain resources, the state of illinois has controlled burns each spring and fall. oaks and hickories have thick bark to shield them and native plant species have deep taproot systems to survive the intense heat. in fact, this carefully maintained ecosystem often contributes to more robust plants after the burn.
we came upon the remains. we hadn’t been on the loop in days and were surprised to see the blackened earth, stalks of char. when the snow fell, it became a landscape – seemingly – of black and white. yet the squirrels ran rampant and we couldn’t feel any stress from the underbrush – like when there is an unexpected fire and the land is scorched.
i knelt down in front of the charred cattails and started to photograph them.
and suddenly there were tears in my eyes. i could feel the fire and the scorched-ness, the cooling snow blanketing it all, the energy still there – underground. i could feel the tenacity of these stalks and twigs, having survived the storm of the planned fire, ready for rejuvenation, resurgence. scrappy and resilient, potent, sturdy – the light past the dark. the recovery post-fire, post-exploration, a renewal. i could feel their passage through it.
i held hands with the cattails as i knelt on the snowy ground. braced, the taproot within – infinite – held fast, reassured me.
and with them i peered into the dark and saw that the light was right there, just beyond the charred edges.
lake michigan – and its looming presence – it’s always there, though sometimes we don’t notice.
i’ve been around water my whole life: long island and florida and here. i’m not sure if i have thought about what that means to me. i’ve lived most of life at or around sea level. i have always been able to – via a short walk, short bike hike, short drive – get to a large body of water. and, regardless of whether or not i am on the shore of that immensity, i can feel it.
the last few days have pulled me out of center – whatever center i have mustered in recent times. in the middle of the middle i can’t feel the grounding gravity that usually helps – perspective that keeps the rest at bay. i know the flailing time is limited and that we are not trapped there. adrift in the onslaught of emotion, i tune in to the things that balance me. i listen for the windchimes outside, i stand in the living room and look at the lit trees, i sit at the kitchen table opposite d, we take hikes in cold air, we light a candle.
i fend off the pining for the high mountains, knowing i can’t get there right now. in guided imagery i sit at the side of the brook – on a log – in the lodgepole pine forest – high on the mountain. i – curiously – am never on the shore – of rock or of sand.
have i always taken the water for granted? do i take this presence – merely a block away – for granted? is it human to pine for the things we don’t have, things that are harder to access?
yet, if i imagine being away from the water – any water – i have a visceral reaction. for it’s always been there and i hardly know what it would feel like without it.
the days i have sat on the coast – sandy beach beneath me – i can feel the deep breath that powerful surf affords.
the days we have hiked streamside up the mountain, the days we have sat on its bank or on rocks in the middle of rushing water – i can feel the the deep breath that the flow affords.
the days we hike along our favorite local trail – river at our side – i can feel the deep breath that its familiarity in all seasons affords.
the days we choose to walk by the lake – on its bouldered shoreline or on its beaches – i can feel the deep breath that an unbroken horizon affords.
and the water – the innate healer – is always there. grounding.
“take a course in good water and air; and in the eternal youth of nature you may renew your own. go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.” (john muir)
i wonder if they breathe a sigh of relief when they come upon a trail. do they huff and puff, trying to slow their heartbeat having bushwhacked their way to this place? do they glance around – tentatively – looking both ways before stepping out? are they exhausted from finding their way? is a bit of clear-path welcome in their wilderness? do they wonder how long they should stay on this which is not a game trail?
the wilderness is a big place.
as we hike – in places mostly not as wild as we would wish – it is a gift of our time-on-trail to cross paths with the spoor of other creatures. we go slow, quietly – peering into the forest – far back in the meadows – to catch a glimpse of these elegant deer, busy-gathering squirrels and playful chipmunks, birds of many calls. we count ourselves fortunate they share the space with us.
it is possible they are deep in the woods – camouflaged – peering back at us. i wonder if they ponder our hiking on the trail. i wonder if they wonder why we are not bushwhacking through underbrush, running when flight is the answer. i wonder what they wonder.
they don’t know if or what we have bushwhacked, how we have arrived at the path on which they see us. they don’t know where we have been, what we have seen, where we have come from. they don’t know what desire path we have created in the woods for ourselves, what watershed at which we stand.
it is all a mystery – back and forth – what we do, what they do. yet, we share the same options for arriving at a destination. we can take a well-beaten path, a planned laid-down trail. we can go the way that is prepared ahead. or we can bushwhack our way free.
reverse threading 