Time to Breathe

 It seems to require either exceptional courage or an intense inclination to sadism to attend to the "news" these days. Journalism has always been a slave to a "if it bleeds, it leads" mentality, but the digital nature of today's world allows the industry to rake up any political conflict,  military mayhem, or natural disaster - large or small - from anywhere on the globe with truly depressing immediacy. I don't know if humanity is really striving to descend to new lows, or if our ability to follow the pessimistic storylines just makes it seem so. Either way, I feel a pressing need to take a breath and focus on that which is good and beautiful in the world.

Fortunately, such things still do exist if you seek them out: a walk somewhere green and peaceful, a taste of poetry, or poultry! an art gallery or museum, and, of course, music. And it was in this musical bastion of beauty and tranquility that we most recently sought refuge.

Friends often ask why, upon retirement, we headed north rather than flock with the snowbirds headed south. It seems as though they felt we were going to be running a trap line in the tundra up by Prudhoe Bay. No. We were instead attracted to the restaurants, galleries, museums and concert halls in the little burg a few miles east of here called Chicago. Oh, and my, did it come through for us last weekend.

The event was the season opening of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. We refrained from springing for a couple of tickets in the mid-four figures to attend the Opening Ball at The Four Seasons, but did opt for a couple of less pricey seats for the concert itself. Worth every cent - including car service to and from the venue, for just a bit more than the cost of parking!

Does the name Lang Lang ring a bell? Don't be embarrassed if your guess was one of the pandas at the National Zoo. Classical musicians don't have quite the following of current pop stars. I mean "Langers" just doesn't have the same marketability as "Swifties." Lang Lang simply is, to quote one review, "the best concert pianist alive today." He is a 42-year old Chinese genius who sometimes frustrates purists with his flamboyant style. And he was the guy who opened the Chicago Symphony Orchestra season, and we were among the sold-out audience who sat transfixed by this generational talent.

 I won't try to do a "review" of either the man, his musical ability or charitable activities, you can seek him out online. Although the recorded versions pale in comparison to the live experience. Let it suffice to say he was incredible. Truly a once in a lifetime moment.

But, move north? Oh, yeah.

Holes in the Fabric

It wasn't as though we had known him that long or all that well. Before moving here permanently he was the "unique" neighbor. He always wore shorts, no matter the weather. Seemingly a bit disdainful of the efforts of the grounds crew he fenced off a few square yards of the lawn between our homes and mowed it himself with a little electric lawnmower. He would nod and wave.

After we moved in permanently he quickly became our "go to guy" for the tools and assistance necessary to fine tune our new space. When a bed didn't fit just right, he provided the know-how to get it right. When we wanted to figure out how to put our outdoor lights on a timer, he provided both the timer and the labor to get it installed and working. He seemed a man of indeterminate age and boundless energy.

We swapped stories and emails, joked across the driveways. He became our closest and most constant friend in a neighborhood that seemed rather challenged when it came to neighborliness. And then he was gone. A pretty young woman rang the doorbell and introduced herself. She was his daughter, still of the "smile-wave-nod" variety. Her father, she sadly reported, had had a massive heart attack and died the previous evening.

It did not seem real. His death was so unexpected, it was hard to believe. Sad, of course, but not the profound grief of the death of a family member or a close friend of many years. It is more, I am coming to believe, like a hole appearing in the fabric of our life in a new place. Something warm and inviting had disappeared. Like a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing, what was growing into whole, complete and normal, took a step back.

Now several days later, watching the flurry of activity in what was previously a calm and peaceful place, I have been thinking about that metaphor - death as a hole in the fabric of our life. There are, of course, many different types of tears in the fabric. Some are devastating, leaving deep scars, like wounds stitched up by an incompetent surgeon. They mar the fabric for seemingly forever. We are damaged. Yet in many ways time really does heal all wounds, not with forgetting but with selective recall. Trauma recedes a bit, and the memories of a smile, a voice, a shared song, float to the surface allowing an answering smile. A piece of peace.

Then there are less agonizing holes. Perhaps no less painful in the moment, but with a more gentle aftermath. We had to have a beloved, 14-year old black lab put down. And no, there is nothing trivializing about considering the holes the death of a pet leaves in the fabric of our lives. Consider this; who is more constant, more loving, more forgiving, more comforting in our lives than your pet? The holes they leave are constant, but somehow gentle. The pets still manifest themselves in the corner of our eye, sleeping in a favorite spot, their paws echoing down an empty hallway. A quiet presence.

So what do we do with these holes that death leaves in the fabric of our lives? We restore them, as we would any precious work of art. We were in Italy a few years ago, maybe Venice, but I think Florence - we tend to settle into one of those two cities for the art and the food. Not sure which this was, not important.

What was important was that as we were leaving a museum there was a rather large area, portions of which were brightly lit - spotlights on a huge canvas, and perched on ladders before the artwork were several restorers. In their hands were improbably tiny brushes making what seemed invisible touches on the canvas. Gently, softly, and oh, so quietly, healing the fabric.

And so we must approach the holes that death leaves in the fabric of our lives. What did the departed entity contribute to our lives? Humor? Industry? Compassion? Love? Honesty? Sensitivity? These are the memory brushes we can take to the flaws that death has insinuated into our lives. We apply them "gently, softly, and oh, so quietly" to the holes, to heal the fabric of our life - turning something "holey" into something holy. 

Playing with Poetry

 Walking the Circle Path - 2024

Earliest beyond planning

Almost without awareness

Routes of exploration 

Sights and sounds

Within each precious moment

Until, quietly, sleep intrudes

And then waking sends one

Again to senses newly formed

Somehow down around 

A curve or corner

We discover the first faint

Awareness of a glimpse

Called destination

Perhaps maybe possibly 

Could be should be is

At least for awhile

Until concrete asphalt 

Highways byways

Bridges parking lots

Detours shortcuts

Cloverleafs round-abouts

And occasional dead ends

Guide us through the

May be could be

Might be should be

Would have been

Should not have been

Got right got wrong

Did over walked away

Turned around started again

That is life

When suddenly again

Beyond planning

At the reborn 

Corner of awareness 

The path turns

Soft and sandy

Bordered by nodding blossoms

No doubt once forgotten

Have been there all long

Now reassert their value

Sweetly requiring our

Attention appreciation

Kinship

Stop smell me

Implores a

Forgotten mantra

We would be wise

To listen to step aside

Off the harried highway

And return 

For a tranquil while

To that friendly path 

We traveled long ago.

Mice - 2001

As mice scampering across a moonlit mesa

Thoughts trace frantic paths across my mind.

Do not pounce. They cannot be caught.

Observe them. Allow them this time.

They are but figments destined to fade at dawn.

Who would have known empty

Could tip the scales to such an incline?

Perhaps dark matter does outweigh

All that is observable and light

Does so subtly assert its unimaginable worth.

For clear light does true love reveal,

Fragile and tenuous in its immortality.

While darkness nurtures its false shade,

A fleeting debasement that decays

Beneath its own whining and recrimination.

So seeming endless patience must your

First companion be.

The imagination of the eyes that look

To be the twins of your own comforts, bring 

A feigned indulgence of your heart’s true ease.

But lose not your firm determination 

To wait upon the rising of heart and flesh.

Allow ecstasy its own fair germination

For love delayed is far sweeter than

Affection or remorse draped in love’s disguise.

Pre-dawn showers mist the mesa.

An owl’s shriek steeps low against the mountainside

Sweeping mice to holes and cliffs and gone.

And sun’s first light reveals me still alone,

But softly now, fresh draped in calm repose. 

Here is the original version, but if you are viewing on a small screen, very, very hard to read 🤪

Polished Pearl

 She is done. Poor thing must be exhausted zipping around in cyberspace!

Enjoy,