Musing 22 July or instruments

Here I am at the Kansas City Fringe, one show down with four to go, and my voice has gone out. I *think* it's allergies, but I'm not certain. Being on the road again means more exposure to covid that I've had since the pandemic began. Yes, I'll test, once I head out into the world later today.

I was going to write about how good it feels to be in front of live audiences again, how nourishing it is, etc etc, but right now I'm going to sip honey/lemon/ginger tea and hope for the best. My instrument, my voice, is currently really gravelly and quiet, and I need to talk as little as possible to not injure myself further. Good vibes welcome. Thanks.

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Musing 18 July or some of the places I have told stories

Yesterday I told stories at the annual Winnebago Jamboree. My first set had about 500 people and the second about 200. It was fun, and reminded me that this lovely, strange career has taken me to some odd places.

Here are some of the places I have told stories:

• The Winnebago National Jamboree
• A nudist camp
• On a boat in the middle of the ocean
• On a hill with earthworks in the U.K.
• From the flight attendants' station on a crowded, delayed airplane
• Innumerable different stages, homes, festivals, events, libraries, schools, assisted living facilities, boardrooms, campfires, conferences, bars, restaurants, computers, etc.
• Several funerals
• A wedding at a pagan retreat center
• A wedding in an art museum
• Many art museums
• On a stage in front of about 3000 people with my stories simultaneously translated into at least four different languages
• At several deathbeds
• Christenings/naming ceremonies
• In various weather conditions
• In a basement as a tornado passed nearby
• In a major league football stadium
• In a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant
• On a bus
• From a carousel
• and more.

I am so grateful for all of this, and look forward to sharing stories in many, many other places. This career has helped me see a big world and have many unusual experiences. I am so grateful. 

I would be remiss if I didn't say that I'm always looking for new storytelling/teaching/coaching adventures, and would be happy to have adventures with you.

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Musing 17 July or in this moment, a grasshopper

I was talking with my therapist this morning about impermanence. We got there by way of discussing how hard self-forgiveness can be, and I knew there was something about impermanence tied up in it all. Without recounting the entire session (which would be dull for you and too revealing for me) I talked my way through some thoughts about how impermanence is freeing. This came from some meditations and readings I've been practicing, but boy, this morning it all hit home. If nothing is lasting then my small mistakes are unlikely to have the overwhelming impact I seem to think they will, so maybe self-forgiveness is possible. 

I know, there is a lot that can be said here, many devil's advocate positions that can be taken, but let's not.

Anyway, this has me thinking about how the only thing that I can really know is this moment. Right now, the click of the keyboard, the dog panting, the sweetness left in my mouth from my tea, this is what I know. None of this is new to either me or the world (Buddha lived and taught 2500 years ago, after all) but it feels more urgent right now.

I've always interpreted The Summer Day by Mary Oliver as a call to action, to more than the moment, but I see now there is another way to consider it, a way likely closer to her intent. All I have is the moment, my attention and care. I know, one can't fully live this way in practice. Money needs to be earned, the bills must be paid, and this dishes need washing, but perhaps I can approach those actions with more attention and less worry about what comes next. This includes the hard work of marketing, cleaning the dog, deciding what tasks need my attention first, and so on.

I've tried to live this way for many years, but perhaps my practice has slipped. I'll try it and see. It won't solve the woes of the world but maybe it will help a little in this moment and that will ripple forward. I am part of a greater whole and what I do matters, but I can only do what I can in this moment. One small step at a time.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

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Musing 16 July or relearning

I don't quite remember when I started, but it's been years. Most Sundays I post a list of "Things I've re/learned this week" on Facebook. I started it as a way to help me remember myself, but it has grown into something I do for myself AND others. There are other people who seem to find it valuable, not only my thoughts on what I've learned or relearned and our commonality, but a forum where they can write down their experiences for the week.

(As I write this, I am watching a fawn graze right next to a young buck resting on the ground. It's quite lovely and rather unusual, males rarely interact with the babies. Anyway.)

It's useful for me to think about both new things I have learned (this week I learned several new zucchini recipes) and the things I have learned again (this week I re/learned that having a spouse die has made me very nervous when my current spouse isn't 100%) and again and again.

Learning is so often relearning. We may have known something before, but rediscovering it is essentially a new piece of learning since we are different from who we were then. Now we bring a different self to the thing we are learning. My understanding of love, loss, cooking, animals, work habits, and and and, is all very different from the first time I may have learned about those things, as it should be. 

Sometimes there is intentional unlearning in between, when we learn that what we thought was so is, in fact, not. It's not always necessary (when I was a kid I learned to ride a bike. I relearned it as an adult. I don't think unlearning was necessary in there) but sometimes it's essential (unlearning racist patterns, for example). I try to notice what I need to unlearn and actively do so, then fill that space with new learning, more appropriate and hopefully better for the world we live in

All of this–learning, relearning, unlearning–is what keeps our minds agile and our hearts open, if we're lucky. The world's more vibrant when we are more open. I'm glad I can still learn. I may be gladder that I can relearn, unlearn, and learn again, that I am not so committed to my past ways of thinking and being that I reject learning about myself and the world over and over again. I hope I keep doing this until I am no longer in this body and maybe even beyond.

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Musing 15 July or potatoes

Note: I mention some history here and gloss over many, many important pieces of information. If you think you know more about this than I do, you're probably right and I celebrate your superior knowledge.

There was a leftover potato looking at me this morning, almost forlorn as if wondering why it didn't get eaten last night. I felt a little sorry for it, and a little disappointed in myself that I hadn't put it away properly but let it dry out.

Before I even consciously decided, my hands were reaching for a knife, cast iron pan (the one from Kevin's grandmother so it's been in use for probably a century), an onion and some other veg. Some oil, some chopping, and hash appeared. 

I love hash. It's such an easy and delicious way to use up whatever might be lying around.

I know a lot of people who really love potatoes. I like potatoes, but I can't say they are a cornerstone of my cooking. Whenever I eat a potato I think about my grandparents, who no doubt grew and ate their own potatoes. I think about the indigenous people who have been eating them for generations. And I think about the famine walls in Ireland.

The Great Famine in Ireland was a direct result of a potato blight, made all the worse by single-crop farming as demanded by landowners. At least a million people died, and at least a million left the country. It was catastrophic to life, culture, politics, and more. In many ways, Ireland has yet to recover, and Irish people everywhere have stories of the famine, even though it was a century ago. 

Famine walls are stone walls to nowhere, built as a work aid project sponsored by the church and government as a famine relief project. People dug, lifted, carried, and placed heavy stones, forming long walls that separate fields, all for a little money so they could buy food. 

God forbid, the church and government just feed them.

All of this passed through my mind this morning as I cut up a potato for hash. Everything we eat has history, politics, stories. Sometimes I think of them and others I don't. 

The hash was delicious. Thank you, potato.

P.S. How to make hash. Grab some veggies. Ideally, you'll have a leftover potato or sweet potato, an onion, some garlic, and whatever else is on hand. Chop it all to a roughly uniform small size. Heat some oil in a pan, cast iron is bet but whatever you have will do. Let the pan get fairly hot. Toss in veggies. You can, if you want, pay attention to the sequence so the veggies that need longer to cook go in first. Cook it all, stirring regularly but letting it sit for a while too so you have some crispy bits. Season as you please, I usually use salt, pepper, smoked paprika. When it seems done it probably is. Dish it up and eat. Yum.

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Musing 14 July or mundane wonder

Some days are about the work of living and the poetry comes from action and pause, completion and setting aside. Today is a day like that. 

• Today I picked up my car from the mechanic, and he told me about working on his cousins' dairy farm. I told him about living on a dairy farm when I was in my teens. We agreed that cows are remarkable animals.
• I've watched the fawns resting in the shade. Today there are three of them. Yesterday there were two. I think the mama is looking after someone else's baby. Deer do that, they will adopt fawns, but I've never seen it before.
• I'm working on a set list for an event on Monday. I'm telling campfire stories, and need to weave in easter eggs about the hiring organization. It's taking some work, some walking away, some more work. I will worry that I can't do it, but it will come together.
• Soon my mother will stop by and we'll talk about everything and nothing because that's what life is, everything and nothing.
• When she leaves, there are weeds to be pulled (always weeds to be pulled), squash to be picked, words to be written and read, dinner to be cooked, a dog and a guinea pig to be loved, a spouse to be appreciated.

Each one of these events seems trivial and yet each one has its own rhythm and beauty, frustration and mundanity. I wish I was someone who always saw it like that, but I'm not. I see the wonder of the every day from time to time, mostly when I stop to write about it as I am now. That's part of the wonder of writing, it helps me see more clearly. 

I hope your day is filled with mundane wonder. There is magic in those moments, even the frustrating ones. It's waiting for you and me.

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Musing 13 July or Darmok

The problem with writing daily posts like this is figuring out what to say. Some days I think I've run out of words. When that happens, if I can listen to the universe then I might hear something.

That happened today. I had no idea what to write. I went out to run errands and, while at the printers to pick up postcards for the KC fringe, I glanced at their tv. It was one of my very favorite Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes (what, you think having a favorite is weird?), Darmok. 

HERE THERE BE SPOILERS:

If you haven't seen it, it's about an encounter with an alien species that communicate through metaphor, and the extraordinary length their leader goes to help Captain Picard understand. It's about the power of shared effort, of language, and most importantly, of stories. 

There is a scene where Picard tells a very brief version of the story of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. The first time I saw it in 1991, I wept. I wasn't sure why, but I knew it meant something important inside of me. You can see it here.

SPOILERS FINISHED

By 1991 I had met Brother Blue, taken the fateful storytelling course with him and then went on with the rest of my life. I was thinking I would be a writer or, if I was lucky, a folklorist (my degree is in folklore). I didn't yet know that my path would be a bit of both and more. That episode, that myth so briefly told, helped give me clarity that my path would be different. Even though I had known Gilgamesh for years, even though I studied with one of its translators, something about this simple telling was overwhelming. I was so moved by the story that I wanted to tell it myself.

30+ years later, here I am. I have been telling Gilgamesh for decades. For me, it's a story of friendship and survival and loss, and I tell it as such. Whenever I tell it, I always say, "Gilgamesh and Enkidu were friends," and clasp my hands. Every time, someone notices and smiles. It's not verbatim from Picard, but close enough.

I love how this ancient story–told in an adequate television series–seen by a 23 year old me–helped send me on the journey to my life's work. I love how Gilgamesh is relevant still and will be in a fictional future. I love how every time I have told this story for the last 30 years, two things happen: one, someone weeps and find their own meaning in it, and two, someone asks if I have seen Darmok. I have. 

It helped change everything. It helped me come to this moment, where you are reading my words and, I hope, feeling some connection.

Laura tells Gilgamesh, tears in her eyes, feet firm on the ground.

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Musing 12 July or art and artist's dates

Content warning: Images of a rather gruesome work of Renaissance art.

In The Artist's Way Julia Cameron advises two regular practices: morning pages and artist's dates. I am inconsistent with both while I understand their importance and feel the benefits when done. I rarely manage to write first thing in the morning more than a few days (the animals! PT! tea!) and I forget to schedule regular artist's dates. In some ways, these musings are taking the place of artist pages, but I know it's not the same. 

Failings aside, yesterday I went on an artist's date and it was everything I might have hoped. I came home full of feelings and ideas. It was lovely and I wanted to share it with you. The Minneapolis Institute of Art is currently hosting Caravaggio's Judith and Holofernes. I've seen reprints and countless images online, but I wanted to see the real thing. It was worth it.

You may not know the story. It's from The Book of Judith, an Old Testament book not included in many official accountings of the bible. It tells the story of Judith, a widow. Her city is besieged by the Assyrians. She decided to take matters into her own hands, and approached the Assyrian general Holofernes. 

She approaches him and he desires her. She promises him the goods, goes to his tent with her maid, and gets him drunk. When he is insensate, she cuts off his head. The Assyrians leave and Judith brings his head back to her village to stand as a warning to any other potential invaders. 

It's a gruesome and powerful story that reminds me that I am not powerless. I hope I am never driven to cut off someone's head, but I can decide to take matters into my own hands and create meaningful change.

I've always loved Caravaggio works, and especially this one. Taking the time to see it in person is worthwhile. It's an amazing artwork and there are details I hadn't noticed in online perusal. For example, look at the intensity of their expressions:

The lines of determination on Judith's forehead and her mild disgust; the grim determination of her nurse, the shock on Holofernes face; and the tight grip the nurse has on the cloth to collect the head, those are hands that have worked. It's amazing.

If you're interested, there are other paintings on this subject. Some of my favorites are Trophime Bigot's and Artemisia Gentileschi's.

This artist's date did what I hoped. I came home invigorated and revived, not to cut off the head of an unwanted person, but to write, create, and revel in noticing details. It reminded me of myself in meaningful ways. That's what the best art (even art I don't care for or find troubling) does for me, it brings me home changed and revived, seeing the world in new ways, and eager to create, share, thrive.

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Musing 11 July or empathy and experience

CW: mentions of racism, chronic pain, cancer. Nothing explicit. Also a little preachy :)

I try to live as an empathetic person. When I was younger this was almost crippling for three reasons: First, when I succeeded in empathy I was overwhelmed by the feelings; second, I often believed I understood more than I did and this led to some hard moments; and third, when I failed I castigated myself. I'd like to think I have more balance now, but it's an evolving practice. I'm glad I approach it intentionally, and I hope I keep learning more about empathy.

What's hard is when I realize that empathy or not, I really can't comprehend what someone is going through. For example, when Kevin was sick, he was in a lot of pain. Pancreatic cancer is terribly painful. I felt for him, I did what I could, I did my best to empathize yet I could not know what it was life. Because he bore it rather stoically, it was sometimes hard to believe it hurt as much as it did. I feel ashamed writing that, but it is what is and, frankly, so it is with all of us. We don't know and sometimes we mess up. I did the best I could, even though it never felt like enough.

In recent years I've been thinking about how hard it is to effectively empathize with someone until you've experienced something similar. This doesn't mean empathy without experience is useless, it most certainly isn't and our imaginations make it possible to empathize and care without lived experience, but there is a difference. 

For example, I will never know what it's like to be Black in America. I was married to a Black man, I grew up in a really diverse neighborhood, I have friends from across the board, but I (a white, middle class, middle aged woman) will never really know. The best I can do is empathize and believe people when they trust me with their experiences, then do what I can to work for a more equitable world.

Another example is around invisible disabilities. Let's take chronic pain. I've known people with chronic pain and have done my best to empathize but I misstepped often, forgetting that they hurt because I couldn't see it. Now I know what's it like and my empathy is different, though still flawed. I am in pain almost all of the time because of my back. Most days it's manageable, but then there are the days when shifting from standing to sitting or bending toward my cup of tea really hurts. This means if someone tells me they are in chronic pain I might, might be more able to remember, empathize, and act accordingly.

I can choose how I respond to this lived experience. 

• I can become bitter and assume no one can possibly understand what I'm going through. I won't do that. None of us are so unique that our burdens are incomprehensible to others or beyond empathy.
• I can accept the empathy I receive, flawed though it may be. I am doing this. Some burden of education falls to me, since I need to remind people that I hurt or can't walk so quickly anymore, but I'd rather assume forgetfulness than malice, and empathize in return. It's hard to remember sometimes and I have certainly forgotten about others issues.
• I can use this experience to deepen my empathy for others. I try, fail, and try again.

All we can do is try. Try to empathize with experiences and lives beyond ours, try to accept the empathy we are offered as long as it doesn't become toxic (that's a whole other post), try to empathize in ways that create useful, appropriate, and meaningful change. 

Try, fail, and try again. So it goes.

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Musing 10 July or belonging

I've had some storytelling gigs in unusual places. I once told stories in a plane thousands of feet in the air from the flight attendants' P.A. on a packed, late flight. Another time I told at a nudist camp. Soon I'll be telling to a bunch of Winnebago enthusiasts. 

Yesterday was one of my favorite unusual places to tell, because I was also telling stories to my past (and maybe my future) self.

I went to my first science fiction convention when I was maybe 13 or 14. I'd been reading speculative fiction since I could read, watching Dr. Who (old school) and Star Trek (also old school) since I was ten, so it seemed like a natural things to do. I don't remember much about that first con, but I do remember finding belonging I hadn't known I missed. 

At that time, geek culture was for outsiders. It wasn't trendy or popular like now, but a bunch of bright people building a community for themselves. There I was, a bright young teen, who could talk with adults without anyone talking down to her. It was magic.

I kept going to cons through my teens and twenties. I was in my early twenties when I found the storytelling community, so gradually my attendance at cons and the like faded. I pretty much stopped going by my mid thirties. 

Yesterday, I told Becoming Baba Yaga at CONvergence, the big Minnesota sci-fi etc con. It was so much fun! Yes, geek culture is now everywhere, and quite popular, but I still felt that sense of belonging because so many different kinds of geekery were accepted. Here were smart, creative people, celebrating what they loved without any need for self-consciousness. In one corner was a woman in a TARDIS dress (she was especially excited that it had pockets), in another was a man with a long grey beard expounding on culture and scientific accuracy from a t.v. series I've never seen, and right here was a middle-aged storyteller, talking about becoming a magical, dangerous crone. 

I miss having close community. I haven't felt deeply involved in a  community since I left Boston, but I felt it again in those hallways. I don't read much speculative fiction anymore, but I could feel the same feelings I did as a child. It didn't matter how weird any of us might feel outside, here we could share my geekiness without worry.

Belonging is so important. Humans are social creatures and almost all need some kind of belonging. It was wonderful watching people belong. Kids playing games with adults. People cheering a group of taiko drummers dressed in some kind of anime costumes. So many different kinds of belonging and celebration.

Will I go back? I think so. I doubt if I'll dress up the way I did when I was younger, but I'll still have fun. Will I belong? I don't know. I struggle to feel like I belong, but for just a little bit, here and there at cons and storytelling events and elsewhere, I don't doubt my shared humanity and belonging. So yeah, I expect I will go back and celebrate everything.

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Musing 9 July or tides

I'm undertaking this public daily writing experiment to help me feel more connected to you and to give me an obligation to write every day. I'm happiest when I write daily, whether it's in a blog, a journal, or on a project, but it's hard for me to do it without an external obligation. By committing to writing every day in July, I feel more connected to myself and to others.

All of that being said, this public daily writing has me thinking about how relatively small my world has become, and asking myself how I feel about it. Before the pandemic I was traveling 30-50% of the time. When I was home I still went out multiple times a week. Now I'm something of  homebody. It's a pretty radical transition in behavior and life patterns.

I wasn't content with traveling so much and I'm not content with staying home so much, but I'm not sure how to achieve balance or what balance might look like. I'm a pretty introverted person and the pandemic enhanced that, yet I need to be around people, my work is with people, and I get down if I stay home for too long. It's a quandary and one that I expect to spend the rest of my life working out.

I know today's musing isn't as interesting or evocative as the others, but it's honest and reflects where I am right now. Today I have a gig that I'll tell you about tomorrow. It will be very people-y, and I expect by the time I get home I'll want to never leave again. 

Perhaps I can think of it as a tide. Some alone time, some people time, over and over. We are creatures of salt water and subject to many tides, maybe this could be one more. Advance, retreat, leave stories of seaweed and shells and the twisted egg cases of conch behind. Onward.

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Musing 8 July or the smell of old books

Did you know that the smell of old books, that scent of time and unread words, is caused by the decomposition of the cellulose and lignin, both plant polymers? What's even better is that smell has a name, bibliosmia. That's the smell of words being forgotten, stories being lost, the book returning to its composite parts.

I love that smell, and I'm sure many of you do too.

I started collecting old books for crafts. I would disassemble them and create other things out of the paper and bindings. Collages, frames, assemblage art, etc. The act of disassembling a book is troubling, given how precious books have been until quite recently, so I started reading them before I took them apart. I then got interested in them for their own sake. 

Old books are different creatures from modern. The paper feels different, the fonts vary more, and sometimes the bindings or illustrations are delightful. They reveal outdated ways of thought, lost music and poems, and have their own weighty presence.

Now I have a corner of the living room, devoted to old books and oddities. If I'm in a thrift store or yard sale, my fingers itch for old paper. It's kind of ridiculous. I'm never going to read all of the new books I have, let alone the old ones, but it feels like someone has to rescue them from rot, and that someone may as well be me.

I could say something here to turn all of this into a metaphor. Lost knowledge. Each death the end of a library (young or old). my own gradual decay into irrelevance. But I won't. Let the books exist for their own sake which is, of course, why I give them shelf space. 

We each have our own odd little fascinations. Welcome to one of mine.

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Musing 7 July or turkey

It's fascinating to me how attached I can become to something that sees me only as a threat. It takes some work to not feel sad about this, but it's worth it. The attachment helps me remain connected to the larger world, and to keep my heart soft.

Long story short, I love wild turkeys and especially their babies.

Long story less short, a few years, a couple of mama turkeys decided to raise their 17 babies in the wildness at the edge of our yard. We watched them grow from little fluff balls to curious kids to rangy adolescents, and then they were gone. Two came back and lived here for a winter-spring-summer-fall, but that's another story. We watched them grow, chased away a hawk or two as the moms crouched over their babies, and really marveled at them. I still have a few of the feathers the juvenile bids shed on the front walk.

I mean, look at them. How could we not have loved them?

Once they were gone, they were gone. It was as if turkeys vanished from our little corner of the world. 

I missed them. Say what you will about turkeys, watching these animals was a lesson in beauty, humility, and wonder.

A few weeks ago, two mama turkeys with seven babies arrived in our backyard. We were delighted. The sounds they made were silly and charming, the mothers were so very careful and caring, giving each other breaks and never putting the kids at risk. It was a wonder.

They disappeared again, but we weren't too worried, they did that from time to time. We were just beginning to wonder what had happened when we saw two female turkeys running frantically through our backyard. Back and forth. You could see the fear in their movements (don't tell me animals don't have feelings, you know they do as well as I) and their distress. There were no babies.

Charley and I talked about what might have happened, each afraid to say the word "coyote" or "eagle" or, most likely, "human." We each mourned a little without wanting to worry the other.

The turkeys returned yesterday, moms and babies. All seemed well. The babies are bigger and they are all there. The mamas still take care of each other and their young. We were both so relieved.

I know the turkeys see me as a threat, as they should. I know were I to approach too closely the best outcome would be a rapid retreat. I know all of these things. That doesn't stop me from loving them, from feeling invested in them, from caring about what happens to them.

If I can feel this way about turkeys, I can feel this way about butterflies, trees and even people. You. Take care of yourself. I care about you. Let me know that's you're okay, even if it's by making a weird sound and leaving a feather on the ground.

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Musing 6 July or oh deer!

I have always been someone who observes things closely, sometimes to the point where I lose the whole in favor of details. I can describe a tree by its bark or leaves but might not know how tall it is. This (like everything) a blessing and a curse, feeding both art and anxiety, but sometimes I am able to see more of the whole and the detail at the same time. Yesterday the universe invited me to see detail at a distance.

Seeing neighbors like these fawns (there were two though the best photo was of one) encourages me to look closely and at the entirety. I will never get close enough to know the details of how soft their fur may be, and how sturdy their hooves, but I can see their beauty amidst all of the green.

Yesterday we watched the fawns exploring. One of them was fascinated by a rabbit grazing outside of our asparagus patch. The fawn watched, took a few hesitant steps closer and bent down to sniff, then galloped away when the rabbit raised its ears and sniffed back. The other got the zoomies and ran all over the yard, kicking its legs up high. When fawns run they seem to stamp the ground, without the grace they soon will grow into. Both always knew where their mother was. All three knew we were watching and, after a time, decided we were ignorable.

All of sudden the doe raced across the yard to something we (momentarily) couldn't see. Then the buck went crashing through the undergrowth with mom right behind, her neck extended to nip if she could. When he was far enough away, she sauntered back, tail flicking as if nothing had just happened.

Today seven bucks wandered into the field next door, some with full racks and others with nubs. The fawns approached them and ran away, approached and ran away while the mother didn't seem too worried. She was only concerned when I was on the porch taking pictures. I don't know why yesterday a buck was a threat but today they were family.

All of this was lovely, humbling, complete. 

When I am too caught in myself, in my own detail, nature can pull me out. That moment of awe, of delight, reminds me that I am part of a vast web of life. If I look, I may see wonder, and the worry about the details fades away.

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Musing 5 July or stomach aches

Musing, 5 July or stomach aches

I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. It was, I suppose, predictable. I had one of those healthy, delicious meals last night that can sometimes have a GI impact later (beans, I'm looking at you). I know it will pass yet right now it seems like I will never feel better. 

There are a lot of things like that in life, those little annoyances that at the time are almost overwhelming but once gone are soon forgotten. I can promise you I will eat too much bean soup again and then remember the next morning why moderation is key. 

It's that way often enough with things that are good for us. They carry consequences just as the crappy things do. They require more work or discomfort or risk. That's the way it is with almost everything, but somethings are worth it.

I want to make a transition here to something meaningful about relationships and connection, but it feels forced and out of reach. The body pretty much always takes priority over wisdom or platitudes. 

I'm going to eat something mild and give my belly a break. Rest is important too, from the hard work of trying to be better as well as from everything else. I promise a better musing tomorrow.

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Musing 4 July or the smell of rain and wind

As I write this I'm watching gusts of wind move the wind-soaked branches back and forth. Even in the dim stormlight (not counting the flashes of lightning) the leaves glisten. 

I love storms, though I didn't always. When I was a young child they terrified me. I was maybe seven years old when my father found me crying in a closet during a storm. He picked me up and rocked me, saying "There's nothing to be afraid of. You're safe. Look, it's beautiful." He stood by the window and held me as the storm raged on; as my tears slowed down, unable to withstand my curiosity; as he taught me to count the time between flash and boom. Given the storms that would later rage between us, this memory is a tender gift.

When I was a teen I took to joining my mother during storms, out on the porch of our ramshackle Victorian twin. She loved the moments before the storm, I loved the storm itself. Now I love both. The way the world darkens and waits, the changes in the scent of the wind, the smell of rain on soil or hot sidewalk. I love it all.

I moved to Kansas City in my mid-forties and storms took on new meaning. They were bigger, louder, and much more threatening since they could hold a tornado in their hidden hearts. In my time there I saw only two actual tornados (though I was quite near one of them) and perhaps a third swept over my home not long before I moved to Minnesota. 

When I first moved to Missouri, I didn't know how to feel about the storms. I remember during the first bad summer storm, I called my friend Philip and asked what I should do. He told me, "Take a blanket and all of your pillows and go into the most protected part of the house. Maybe the basement or a bathtub. You can safely wait out the storm there. Or, once you're really a midwesterner, you'll go on the porch to watch."

That first storm I stayed inside. By the last, the one when the wind was moving horizontally and I could hear the freight train above, I stayed on the porch and watched. I still do.

I suppose there is a metaphor in all of these for facing storms in life. I'll let you suss it out. For now, I'm going back outside to feel the wind, smell the rain, and applaud each flash of lightning.

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Musing, July 3 2023 or The smell of rubber and lube (not what you think)

I miss writing here. I'm going to start posting occasional musings, and see what happens.

______________________

I dropped my car off at the mechanic's this morning, a shop I haven't been to before. His garage is towering, at least two stories high, though neither wide nor deep. There was a deer head made of nuts and bolts, old tools and odd pipes near the entrance, a really artistic piece that would never make it in a museum, their loss. Right below was a vintage Coke machine that would cost hundreds in an antique shop, but here it's still in use. On top sat a few glass insulators, like the ones I have in my living room window where they can catch the light.

His office walls were wood panelling, covered with thank you notes from various local teams and a signed picture from a tv show. I expected it to smell like cigarettes, but I guess he quit a long time ago.

I've spent many hours in shops like this. Once upon a time I loved working on engines, and my 1963 Dodge with a slant six made it easy. The aroma of motor grease and lubricants and rubber is a sweet scent to me, and I smiled as I smelled it again.

My hands miss knowing how to change an oil pan or a carburetor. They are clean most of the time now, and my knuckles are rarely scuffed. Some might call it growth, but I wonder about that alternate path, the place somewhere in a nearby universe where I know more about engines and less about words. So it goes.

In this universe I can, at least, share the scent and memory with you.

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Nine years minus a day

I have so many seemingly-disconnected thoughts in this moment. I try to write fairly cogent essays here, but this won't be one. Please forgive me. This is not the usual longing love letter, though both the longing and the love are here.

1. I'm sure part of why I'm not thinking in a linear way is because I spent the weekend at Sharing the Fire Storytelling (STF) Conference. This conference was integral to our relationship. It's where our friendship really nudged into more. It's also an annual event we both worked hard at (Kevin did a lot of the audio work, I ran it for several years) and decompressed from together. It took me years to return to STF after he died, it's so full of memories and triggers. I went in 2018, I think, then not again until this year, its return from the pandemic.  It felt very strange. Mostly it felt like a reminder that Kevin has been gone for a long time. I taught a workshop, told a story, and mostly had one-on-one conversations, hid in my room, or walked. I didn't want to open the door to all of the feelings. I think sorting through STF will take some time.
2. This far out, the feelings are so much more layered than they used to be. Yes, I miss him deeply, but I now have a whole rich life full of things and people he never knew. I live in a state he never visited, many of my friends are people he never met. That is both a blessing and a weight right now. It is both a solace and feels very lonely. I wish he could have known these people and things, yet I know I wouldn't have known them were he still here. This feeling is especially strong when I look at Charley, a man Kevin would have really enjoyed, yet a relationship that never would have been were Kevin still alive. It's complicated.
3. Time both dulls and releases memories. He is a memory, and some aspects of those memories are sharp and clear, while others are faded and hard to work out. The release of memories is not only a distancing, but an ability to look at things that hurt to much before. I'm looking.
4. Kevin died at 55. I am 55. Next year, on the tenth anniversary of his death, I will be older than he ever had a chance to be. This is making it all harder; this year the grief feels like walking through a marsh with both beautiful moments and treachery. This year, too, I know there is a path through. That also feels like a blessing and a weight.
5. Finally, I have some stuff going on that moves energy from this anniversary. I'm learning how to live with back issues. I'm thinking about how to restructure my business, a business he believed in, in the long tail of the pandemic. Oh yeah, there's still a pandemic. Some other people I love are making their way to the end of their lives. And so on.

There is more, but not stuff I'm ready to share. All of it together means that, while I'm thinking of Kevin often, missing him, and having some hard memories, it's not the cutting pain it once was. This is a good thing. It also is a pain unto itself.

So it goes. Tomorrow I will go someplace beautiful for the day. I will eat foods he loved. I will feel and write and be grateful and sad and joyful that he was. Love doesn't die, it expands and fills us and helps us live.

Wherever you are, I wish you all good things.

Love,

Laura

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Nine years minus a little

Nine years ago today was a Saturday, Kevin and I planned to go look at several houses for sale. He was feeling crappy, so we didn't. We stayed home. I remember sweetness to the day, talking about what we might want in a house, watching a movie, taking a nap together. He took a lot of naps. We made love for what I did not know would be the last time, very gentle and tender.

Around 9:30p.m. that night, nine years ago tonight, he was bent double from pain, and he finally agreed to go the E.R. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, when he was wheeled back into the room after having a C.T. scan, I remember thinking, "Remember this moment, this is the last moment of not knowing," because I already knew.

It's been many years now and I am happily remarried, but the grief is still there. As I and many others have said so many times, grief is the price of love.

What I am learning more and more every year is that the body remembers. I woke today with a sense of dread and I'm having a hard time concentrating. I know now what nine-year about me didn't, about what is to come, what came.

Love never dies. I am so grateful for the time I had with Kevin, even the hard parts. 

I'll be kind to myself today, and in the coming days leading to March 28, the anniversary of his death. You be kind to yourself, too. We all are carrying burdens.

I love you, Kevin, and I miss you.

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