“Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives –”

–Mary Oliver

This year the winter in Wisconsin has been hard on the trees.  The branches of the white pine were so laden with snow they snapped off leaving raw wood exposed high above and a yard full of sticks below and limbs now frozen under more layers of snow.  The spring will reveal a tangled mass of branches.  The birch trees are bent and may stay that way.  We climb through the snow and move aside newly fallen branches and reclaim the path.  Yet strangely grateful for this task, this tussle with the branches and the snapping sound they make. It is a reminder that we have entered another place, the woods and all it offers.

Depending on our mood we enter other lives like we enter the woods.  We walk until there is an obstacle.  I have often tossed a branch off into the woods only to have it hit a tree and come right back to me.  Or carefully lifting and moving fallen branches or walking deep into the woods with a long branch dragging the leafy top behind me.  Neatly Cutting, clipping, and sawing fallen limbs stacking them along the path for a creature or person to use.  The black and white of the winter is framed by a tangle of branches, often glistening with ice or snow.  On a hike a big glob of snow will fall on me as if thrown by a kid on the playground. It always makes me laugh, wet faced, and momentarily incensed.  We step off the path and tangle with the woods and are glad for the branch that springs back and reminds us that we took a chance.

“Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?

Well, there is time left —
fields everywhere invite you into them.”

–Mary Oliver

The revolving door twirls us into other worlds. Just beyond the cold Lake Michigan wind is a warm, soft-carpeted event that I know nothing about. But I was curious as to all the lanyard- wearing, mostly men, event going on in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel.  On the elevator ride up to my health club I inquired of the other riders about the conference.  It is the Additive Manufacturing Users Group or AMUG.  Who knew?

The scurrying to workshops, grabbing coffee, greeting colleagues, and having a drink at the bar looked pretty fun and brought back memories of conferences past.  I attended several conferences as a presenter.  These were nerve- wracking –but- glad- I- did -this- occasions.  I also enjoyed my role as an attendee and was able to travel New Orleans, Washington D.C., Denver and Champaign, IL.

The benefits of attending a conference are meeting interesting people, listening to new ideas and letting information wash over you.  It is so much better than school. I liked the feeling of anonymity and wasn’t compelled to raise my hand. I just wanted to be a sponge. Maybe it was that moment to become a student again, not being in charge. What a relief.

There is a strategy to attending a conference.  Go the night before it begins to register and pick up the program.  Find some fun people and go through the booklet and circle all the sessions you want to attend. Make yourself a reasonable schedule and fit in as much as you can, but still see the town your are staying in. Take a tour, go to dinner, and walk around the neighborhood.  Another rule that can be hard to follow is sit fairly close to the door. Why? You have limited time and if the talk doesn’t interest you, you want to slip out and onto a better-suited session.  No shame, just go and get the most out of this time.

And isn’t this the take away for life. Get out there, say hello to the Additive Manufacturers and find out what is going on.

There is a children’s book by Jeff Mack that only has four words in it, Good News, Bad News.  It is the story of a rabbit and a mouse that are going on a picnic.  The good news is that they are going on a picnic, and off in the distance we see a little dark cloud so the bad news is it starts to rain, but the good news is the rabbit has an umbrella.  The story continues, and in this little 4-word story there is such a thoughtful lesson for young children that can be applied to us all.

 ​Our own perspective on the day and on the world can change from moment to moment. This can vary dramatically based on our mood.  Does every situation have two sides? What is my reaction to adversity or bad news?  As these times yank us in all directions it can feel a bit like “choose your own adventure” and maybe that is a key. I’m going to try harder to find the good news.   The bad news is the wind was blowing all the apples onto Mouse’s head but the good news is…..more apples!

We all feel a bit pummeled and beaten down. So many people have taken the brunt of these times, nurses and teachers to name a few.  Some families have suffered losses of epic proportions, and yet within the sorrow is the warmth found in the kindness of strangers.  It provides hope.  Is that why I read the paper each day? I’m searching for it and although it has become harder to find, it is there, hope and generosity.

I’m drawn to the words of Eddie Vedder when I say, “I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good.”

The summer came with so much promise and we were ready to embrace everyone and everything. Those lovely friend smiles, smiles from people on the street, smiles of strangers, they were all revealed.  I began to write about that feeling of joy and before I could finish my story the mood changed.  Caution returned, distancing from people we love and a weird crack in our life that left some people on the other side. 

Today the rain finally came and the water has highlighted the changing leaves.  Whole branches are golden in the late afternoon light.  Fall is heartbreakingly beautiful. The colors although brilliant are at the same time somber.  I always feel a bit of melancholy, tinged with relief.  Summer pushes us to go and fall says stay calm, float like a leaf, it’s ok to fade, even wither a bit because it isn’t forever.  I’m not ready to be dormant just a bit slower. 

We plant trees knowing they will shade our children, we pile rocks so water won’t etch our path, we rake leaves so small shoots can grow next spring.  These rituals of fall are labors that make us feel safe, and that are gifts to the future.  It is the warmth of summer that we hold inside and it gets muffled, but it will burst out again and the beauty is that deep down we know it.

“So you mustn’t be frightened, if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any you have ever seen; if an anxiety, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall.”  Rainer Maria Rilke

In March the weather tries out all the options on us.  I saw distant lightning create a glow in the sky, coming from way down the lake, and as it approached sheets of rain slid down the windows.  Then just for fun a bit of hail.  I expected to awake to a wet melty mess, but instead a new layer of soft snow.  This afternoon promises sun and 45 degrees. 

I was married in March on a 70-degree day. This weather appeared out of nowhere, and being completely unaware that I may need a coat on my wedding day, happily I did not.

My mom had clipped all the branches from the forsythia bush in a lovely plan to force the blooms and her words “there would be a riot of yellow” in vases around our house.  But instead there were vases of long sticks in all my wedding photos. It is actually a more true memory of life in our house.

The following March on our first wedding anniversary Kevin and I decided to stay in our same wedding night hotel in downtown Chicago.  We packed a few spring clothes and were greeted by an ice storm with dangerous clumps of snow falling off tall buildings.

St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago meant our girls Irish danced in the parade down State St. and were dressed in their wool costumes, tights and gloves.  Many years the sun shone and other years we all should have had our heads examined as the temperature was in the teens. 

Is a butterfly flapping its wings somewhere far away causing the hail to fall on our roof? The chaos of March is a sign, and something we celebrate as winter sputters to a halt and spring emerges from underneath the snow.  It is a madness we feel and this spring will provide a euphoria like one we have never known.

But in the immortal words of Sgt. Phil Esterhaus from Hill Street Blues

“Lets be careful out there”

“Weather is on us like a beast. “ It has given me permission to stay inside.  The beauty of the day is out there somewhere; the snow is blindingly white, punctuated with bare black trees that cast long blue-grey shadows. Knowing it is so cold makes the day more spectacular to look at. 

The weather has exercised its’ power over us and we bend to the elements.  The flags on our neighbors frozen shore are trying to hang on for dear life from the northerly wind.  The sun is fooling us with glistening snow and the promise of a brilliant day. 

Eyes tearing, breadth wet and steamy behind my scarf, hat so low I can barely see, a brief walk that is shorter than the time it took me to get dressed. Back inside and safe, hot tea, a book. Was it the fear and cold that made the warmth and book that much better? I think so. 

They appear as it gets dark, not murderers, but neighbors.  Dramas made up by me the viewer, that fit into windows across the way, in neighboring buildings, shiny high rises and old factory lofts that remind me of an Edward Hopper painting. They reveal their inner hive as the lights go on. 

It can feel like a cop show where I watch the intake interview, but I remain unseen. Or do I? Was my silly dance observed, my dinner preparation, or the glow of our TV? These are things I can catch a glimpse of from across the alley, or across the street.  Glowing bracelets are a video game or a workout; tiny Christmas lights wrap an interior beam or column, two white haired early risers making their breakfast at the counter.

People are too far away and windows are too small to see a complete scene, just glimpses.  There is enough information to make up the rest of the story or to capture a mood, a setting.  Just seeing people move about provides comfort and reassurance that we are all somehow together living in the city.  It is reflective as well as introspective.  We press our foreheads to plane and train windows in the hopes of catching a sight of something.  We don’t even know what we are looking for. *

The window washers are across the way today.  They are the real Spidermen and they must see it all.  They repel down a tall vertical surface and with an amazingly quick swipe and squeegee the rain and dust of a season is gone and the shiny glass is revealed.  I was caught by surprised to see these super heroes on my balcony washing our windows and popped out to offer a cup of coffee.  Drinking coffee while hanging above the city, now that was a moment.  Clean windows and more chances for looking, daydreaming and finding what connects us.

“It’s not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out the window.”

-Wallace Stevens-

* Exploring Your Mind Blog, August 2018

I’ve been thinking of one of my favorite TV shows from about 1965.  I loved all the spy shows from that era.  I never missed The Man from U.N.C.L.E, my friends and I had a crush on Illya Kuryakin.  And how about The Avengers with John Steed and the cool and beautiful Emma Peale, they were so chic.

Humor filtered into these shows and new ones appeared maybe to help grownups cope with the daily news, I’m sure my parents must have enjoyed and picked up on the adult slyness. We loved Rocky and Bullwinkle with the evil pair of Russian spies Natasha Fatale and Boris Badenov, the world’s greatest no-goodnik.  Rocky and Bullwinkle were making the world safe for democracy. We may need them again.  I was about 10 years old at this time so the idea of a cold war wasn’t on my radar even though my best friend had a bomb shelter in her basement.  To me these shows were funny, clever and also suspenseful.

 But the best of all was Get Smart with the hilarious Agent 86, and the stunning brunette, Agent 99.  How did I ever forget about the Cone of Silence, the shoe phone and the ice cube microphone? We did not want our country in the hands of KAOS! We wanted CONTROL.  Is there some message for our current times in these silly, innocent shows of the 60’s?  I hope so and maybe it will be the end for Mr. Big, “If only he could have turned his evil genius into…..niceness”

 

-Emily Dickinson

 

Within moments of taking this picture I expected it to disappear. The find was too precious, too hidden, and oh so pale. I almost looked around to see who was watching me, and so unseen I shared a moment with this trio of ghost white shapes.

They are called Indian Pipes and they live in the darkness of a forest needing no chlorophyll and surviving on decaying matter and borrowing nutrients from certain fungi and trees.

Emily Dickinson wrote to her friend Mabel Loomis Todd,

“That without suspecting it you should send me the preferred flower of life, seems almost supernatural, and the sweet glee that I felt at meeting it, I could confide to none,”

Mabel had sent Emily a painting of the Indian Pipes on a black panel, thinking they were the perfect symbol of the poet and her poetry that had been hidden from the world.

This discovery brought me back to early spring when we all slowly peeked out from under the covers and tried to greet each other in new and somewhat unfriendly ways. No hugs, kisses or handshakes, but muffled greetings from behind our homemade masks. We saw people in passing on our daily walks, and across the time zones on our screens. Since those early days of the virus we have upped our mask styles and we meet friends outside for coffee and drinks.

The Indian Pipe sighting stuck with me and reading about this odd little plant I thought about how we also rely on our surroundings for nourishment, and we count on each other. It has been difficult to be there for the people who need us; it is a daily wonder to think of workers, teachers, nurses and all those who have been bravely out in the world. It is as special as finding the elusive Indian Pipe.

 

 

 

 

The alerts that pop up on my phone serve as a reminder of a life that has changed. A notification appeared for an event that would not occur. The notice created a wistful feeling that I was missing something, but at the same time it was an equally strong reminder of gratefulness for my current life. It is a weird balancing dance we are experiencing.

 

So many people are experiencing loss at such a level we can’t comprehend. High school seniors are missing those last warm days of friendships, graduation and maybe a cold beer in the woods with their friends. Weddings are on hold, and babies are born without that welcome nuzzle from adoring grandparents. But there are losses far more permanent and it is those that we mourn collectively.

 

My calendar was telling me it was a few days until the lecture on Monet at The Art Institute of Chicago. I would have looked at the water in the paintings and the million shades of green that Monet employed. The reflection of light and life in the water would have sent me over the moon with a longing to hear those lily pads gently scrape the sides of my kayak and watch my paddle pull up the occasional stem and fling it across the bow of my boat.

 

But rather than the imaginary lily pad experience I’ve been blessed to watch in person those green platters as they unfurl from their underwater sleep, where they have been curled up and waiting. We typically only see them when they have fully bloomed and the bay is thick with growth and difficult to paddle. But we came up north early, and so I am having my own Monet experience from the low vantage point of a kayak.

 

I’m thankful for this time and for so many other things I know I take for granted. My little story bears no to resemblance to the loss and longing that so many other people are having right now, and for them I send up a prayer.