The Meaning of Things

Preparing for an upcoming trip to New York City, I was reminded of a late night connection made there on a freezing cold Valentine’s Day last year. The bar was preparing to close and despite being prodded most the night by one of my oldest and dearest friends I had managed to resist hopping up to the piano bar all evening. A decision easily made and definitely for the benefit of any club patrons as I had completely lost my voice by this point in the trip. It had been a whirlwind few days as I had traveled to the city to help my friend Maureen’s daughter Gabi, a fashion designer, prepare to show her collection at New York’s fashion week. It was a bit of reunion of sorts as my college roomie from upstate New York, who will always be affectionately “Moe” to me, has spent the last 30 plus years abroad in Spain and Abu Dhabi. It was a family reunion as well as her sisters and nieces and nephews here in the states were joining us to celebrate Gabi’s amazing achievement. It was late nights, loud restaurants, runways on rooftops in wintry conditions and endless laughs and conversations as we cut ribbon, printed QR codes and sought out supplies at just about every office store and Duane Reed in midtown. The show was a great success and as family made their way back home our entourage whittled down to just Moe and myself, Gabi and her husband Fer. It was Valentine’s Day and what a fabulous place for a young couple to celebrate, so with plans for a carriage ride through Central Park and possibly a romantic dinner, they were off. Moe and I although exhausted, rallied and found our way to restaurant row and the piano bar Don’t Tell Mama for our Gal-entines of sorts. Toasting our dear husbands at home we found a table near the piano and as our cocktails arrived I had to resist a spit take as the pianist slipped in a tasteless but funny Dukakis joke and from that moment a connection began. More political humor entwined between amazing performances by the staff and random visitors and I began singing along despite having lost my voice, instinctively, I began to harmonize and was caught by Michael the talent behind the keys as he pointed at me and said, “You’re a singer!” Joining us during his break we discovered so many of the same concerns and passions that drive each of us, his vocal activist spirit and my simple desire to make this world just a little bit better brought two unique souls together for just a few moments. As the evening drew to an end and the staff began cleaning up, Michael and Moe both insisted I get behind the piano and sing. Moe shared what a big U2 fan I am and before you know it we were singing “With or Without You” for no one really, just for ourselves. My voice was gone, but the absolute joy remained. At one point, Michael. Looked at me and said, “Take it!” And as I tried to hit a higher note, my voice failed me and I gleefully sang “I have no voice left to give!” Thankfully the song was nearing the end, but in that moment I realized it wasn’t about hitting the right note; the audience was gone, who was even listening? Once I surrendered to the sheer joy of singing and let love take the microphone, there was my voice though raspy and off pitch. It was the same voice of the little girl singing and dancing throughout the hallways of her childhood home, the same voice that sang lullabies to her children, shared jokes and laughs with her friends. The same voice that has cried out in sorrow and dismay, the same voice that searches for the right words to say, the same voice that earnestly tries to speak her own truth. Sometimes it takes losing something to truly find it. I know right now so many feel they have no voice left to give, they feel no one is listening, they feel hopeless for any change for the better, especially here in my hometown after a mass shooting and continued suffering as violent acts have become too common of an occurrence. Letting love lead the way seems pretty trite in light of all the suffering; but sometimes it is because we have loved that we are in so much pain, it is the heart of our suffering. We are no longer consoled by thoughts and prayers; we are angry, we are aching, we are tired, we are trying to find our voice again. Finding our voice is a journey we must all take. It may mean exposing our wounds to begin healing. It may mean taking a deep dive within. It may mean lending your voice to a cause dear to you. It may mean a lot of things, but it will require from all of us the ability and willingness to listen. It's a noisy world these days and it is a challenge to silence the mind and listen to one’s heart, one’s own inner voice while recognizing that too often we are the ones who keep it quiet. We let the world muffle what our souls are crying for; we let those in power leave us feeling powerless and yet we all have our own songs to sing. It is so easy to be hopeless right now, I get it. But in our despair we must dig deeper and draw on our reserves of all that is good in this world. Rekindling our fires within we can begin to do the work that each of us are called to do while here in this world. Keep it lit, feel its heat, draw on its light and find a way to sing your song, even when you feel you have no voice left to give. “The only tyrant I accept in this world is the still voice within.” Mahatma Ghandi

Sometimes, somehow when time passes too quickly we often say “Life got in the way” and when I look on this last blurry 375 days to be exact, for me; it was death that got in the way. It’s been quite a year, first, my father then my uncle, my aunt, a mother of someone very dear to me taken way too young and my brother’s wife of 37 years. We even lost our family dog C.J. after 16 years. There were meals to prepare, hundreds of cookies to bake, there were errands that needed to be run, there were prayers to be said, prayer shawls to be knit, calls to be made, schedules to be filled. There were still bills to be paid, the trash still needed to go out, the laundry had to be done, the every day managed to maintain its momentum despite the pull of the extraordinary events of the last year. Death is an extraordinary event and I am honored when someone has willingly given me one of their precious fleeting moments when they know the cancer has become too much too bear, when it’s just too hard to breathe, when the words are no longer available. Being present in those moments are surprisingly spiritual and in those moments, nothing matters but the very seconds spent in each others soul-filled space. It was a privilege to sit with my 91 year old father in hospice care ensuring he received just a fragment of the care he had offered his family. Those blessed with 90 plus years and a peaceful passing offer us a window into the spectrum of life and we see the grace in it all. It’s much harder to find that grace when disease strikes, addictions takes hold, accidents happen, when one moment they are here and the next they are gone. As much as I love nature and living among its beauty and brethren, I still struggle with this natural circle of life. There’s nothing quite like hearing the round up howls of the coyotes recognizing the hunt is on and yet understanding that they too must find sustenance. Now existing in this space that was filled with those who have passed I find myself musing about my own exit from this place, it’s definitely the Irish in me, wondering when “the troubles will end”. Having walked this path several times this past year, I understand the gift in preparedness. There are countless decisions to be made in moments when heads are spinning and hearts are breaking. One is never really prepared as to how to truly honor the life of someone you held so dear and yet preparedness has taken on a whole new meaning for me through it all. I understand U2 may not be readily available to blast “Where the Streets Have no Name” from the choir loft as I make my final appearance in whatever form of my choosing, but at least maybe the Edge with the opening guitar rift, Im just saying. Just as we anxiously await the arrival of a newborn, we have months to prepare and to plan and yet those of us who have become parents understand nothing truly prepares you for the moment when your life changes forever, so it is when we have to let go, say our final goodbyes, life is changed forever but oh how blessed to have shared in the journey. Preparedness for me means saying I love you, taking a moment to listen, really listen. It’s turning the volume all the way up when your favorite song comes on or maybe jumping up and down in the grocery aisle when you hear it. It’s making the phone call, it's having the hard conversations, it’s crying in your popcorn over the same line, every time. It’s laughing, it’s being connected, staying connected to others and to your own self. It’s standing in your fabulous cowboy boots and not in judgment. It’s letting go, it’s forgiving, blessing it all. It’s dropping to your knees in gratitude, it’s being there to hold the hand while waiting for the test results. It’s breathing it all in and breathing it through despite time zones or oceans between. It’s wrestling with your own baggage so no one is left carrying it. It’s supporting the artist and creating your own masterpiece. It’s meeting people where they are and not where you want them to be. It’s having your breath taken away by the gift of a rainbow, a sunset, a magical moon. It’s getting your hands dirty in the garden and your boots muddy in the creek. It’s a meal shared with another and the simple grace of a home baked cookie. It’s embracing the weeds and allowing them space in this world.It’s whiling away hours completing a jigsaw puzzle, burying your nose in a book or just the simple luxury of a nap. It’s celebrating the accomplishments of others and treasuring the talents you have been given. It’s laying along side that hound dog that leaves you covered in hair while demanding more affection; it’s being needed. It’s being loved and loving with all you got. It’s taking time with a child reminding them how precious they are to this world. It’s understanding you gave it all you had and it still didn’t work. It’s realistically recognizing your limitations yet making more space for all that you are capable of. It’s feeding the woodpeckers who wake you in the morning pecking at your walls. It’s continually learning new things and yet recognizing your own inner wisdom. It’s saying yes when you can and saying no when it’s right for you. It’s showing compassion, being empathetic to others and most of all to yourself. It’s simple be-ing. It is simply living Preparing this way, I believe brings life to those we have lost. In all these simple mystical moments of living we carry those who have left this earthly place with us. We hear their words, we recognize them in our dreams, we talk to them, we bring them with us where we hoped they would be. Preparedness leaves doubts at the door and peace for those on either side. My ever wise poetry guru Mary Oliver says it best in her poem “When Death Comes” When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world. Another sweet soul who has left us is the matriarch of this modern home we live in. I realized I never shared this short tribute I wrote while flying home from New York and a whirlwind fashion week. It was just days after I landed that my father entered the hospital and this season began. Gratefully I share it with you now. A tribute to Becky Returning home from a wonderful whirlwind of a trip to New York city as I dropped my bags, greeted my hounds and began the usual re-entry process of sorting through mail, most of which these days anymore is just fodder for the recycling bin, but there it was in the pile, a neighbor had kindly printed it out and placed it in our mailbox, the story of one amazing life well lived, the heart of this modern home. Becky DeCamp who dreamed of building this modern home passed away and ironically her obituary was printed on my birthday. A sign seemingly as to how the home created our connection. The photo of her smiling face captured so much of her presence and I am so grateful that we had a chance to meet. When I try to express how it feels to live in this home, I think the fact that Becky included the house in her obituary speaks volumes to the connection these walls and windows provide. Becky loved the trees and as I listened to our conversation I had recorded for a previous blog, every mention of the trees brought so much joy to her heart! “The trees were there, so I put in the windows” Becky’s husband Mike is buried in the small history laden cemetery that is tucked away in our neighborhood and soon Becky will be as well. Our dog Lambeau and I have visited Mike so often giving updates on the house, asking for guidance and intervention to help with all the repairs and as always I got the sense Mike would say, it was all Becky and in return she would say it was all Mike as he went along with her dream of building this house; despite everyone else thinking she was crazy to build on that hill. Something tells me they shared the adventurous spirit that people have said Rob and I possess. Mike had health challenges associated with his diabetes and it only motivated Becky more to complete this vision of a home for them acknowledging Mike’s health may give them fewer days living among these trees. Becky’s memories although fading at the time we met nearly 3 years ago were all so filled with happiness, stories of all the parties, theirs and their sons which I heard were legendary! Watching her boys play outside the kitchen window and on the paddle tennis court brought her so much joy. The concrete pylons that steadied the paddle ball court still stand in the woods as a reminder and as my best treasure hunting spot after a good rain as many a relic landed under that court! . I offered to bring Becky back through the house before she moved to Madison, WI to live with her son but in the end, she felt it may be too much. Struggling to remember even her husband’s name when we sat down to chat, I understood. Her presence is everywhere in this house, her vision, her determination, her adoration for the trees, her choices, her joy, it’s all still here. And as we try to move forward as stewards to her dream we will stroll over for a visit, Lambeau and I and we will see what Becky has to say. Until then we will nurture the few saplings we have retrieved from the gardens and wait for the perfect day to plant one in her honor, if you look on the calendar you will see as I am sure Becky would note, every day is a perfect day to plant a tree.

We lost a legend last week in the Karman household, CJ our pup of over 15 years left us as he always did lovingly licking our faces with his horrible breath and his unabashed adoration for his people even in his final moments. Such a gift, despite the fact that he was impossible to train, not the brightest in the pack, extremely lumpy and often a real pain, but he was our real pain and we adored him.

Living in this modern tree house of a home, there is a kindred sense of connection to the works of naturalist poets such as Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry and Robert Frost and thankfully, just as I had hoped, I have had my “moments”.

In the midst of winter and the ice that clings to the delicate branches and blades, I find myself an empathetic mate to our furnace fighting to fire itself up some days.

As the leaves silently release and float on their windswept descent gently landing on the ground beneath my feet, I find myself graced by a cool breeze and a moment of envy. How is it that this season of Fall makes constant change and letting go look so easy?

Now, as the planet has taken a breath, a pandemic imposed pause; the dreams of a poet’s life are answered and the seclusion calls me to join her. This modern home has provided the hermitage I have subconsciously longed for and now the stillness of society speaks as if to say, “Go home, now is the time to go within your own walls.”

Gratefully, Spring has arrived and as I found myself returning to my writing, I discovered this post yet to be published and polished. Sitting here now under this haze of home quarantine, these post-flu musings from late January give voice to this new season of hibernation we are all experiencing. So I offer this post, hoping you find rest as we wait, peace as we try to understand and faith that the world will once again find each of us in its love-filled embrace.

Each roof that gracefully covered my head, each night I was away from home had its own story to tell and just like a good book, each one opened its pages to a place it was saving just for me as if the sentences prior were written just waiting for my arrival.