When Death Gets in the Way

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

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.

I knew my feet were firmly planted on the sawdust covered floor of a factory in Austin, Texas, but somehow, I felt at home.