A sign of… something springing.

Tags

climate change, gratitude, meditation, mindfulness, ocean, robins

Yesterday morning, after a really fun show with the trio in Rockport, MA the night before, Shawn and I woke up in the home of our fantastic hosts and were lucky enough to experience an ocean sunrise. We took a short walk to the water’s edge and spent some time savoring those precious few moments in its presence before we had to rush home for the next thing.

I could easily spend the rest of this blog post riffing just on the ocean – the feelings, emotions, memories, and sensations that it stimulates; the billions of years of life evolving on this planet starting out there in those deep and mysterious waters; the motion of planets and moons being expressed right before our eyes.

What I wasn’t expecting was the presence of about a dozen robins, living happily in the trees there at the start of our walk.

‘Robins?!’ we both exclaimed to one another, having to remind ourselves of the fact that it was January 8th in the northern hemisphere. Yep, it’s winter alright.

It’s almost like there’s something going on with the climate…!

I noticed my attention wavering and my mind spinning a little bit, pondering the changing climate, the impact that human activity is having on this planet that is home to countless species of life, feeling sad and angry. Robins are a sign of spring, dammit! These robins are a sign of something else springing.

And then my attention returned to our walk on the path, and then on the rocks, and then the beauty of the scene that we witnessed at the water’s edge. I’m so grateful for this life, for this chance to be aware of anything at all!

On our walk back to the house, I stood for a while under the trees and watched and listened to the robins, and also the Carolina wrens (another bird species whose range is expanding). They all appeared to be healthy, doing what birds – what living beings – do.

Life adapts – or not.

Then we bid a grateful farewell to our hosts and got in our fossil-fuel-burning car and made our two-and-a-half-hour drive home to prepare ourselves and our gear for a Zoom concert, to sing and play and share about our joy and awe.

And this morning, I am remembering a song I wrote a few years back:

If I can take one mindful breath
If I can take one mindful step
I may never know what kind of change the world will see
But if I can take one mindful breath
If I can take one mindful step
Then I can remember that change begins with me

May we all take mindful breaths and steps on this one beautiful planet that we share with all living beings.

Hark! These tired angels sing…

Tags

Christmas, gratitude, life, touring

‘Is my life today what I pictured a year ago?’

I had thought to write about something entirely different this morning – Christmas caroling, actually – and that built-in WordPress prompt got me thinking…

So, is it?

Sitting here at this table, looking at this laptop?

Looking past the screen at several inches of new snow through which the birds and red squirrels are now digging for their sunflower seed breakfast?

Watching the sunlight come up over the hills behind the house and light up those pines and birches just so?

Sipping the coffee that Shawn just made moments ago?

Listening to a Benny Green/Christian McBride/Gregory Hutchinson live-stream recording from earlier this year?

Feeling joyfully fatigued from another weekend on the road creating and sharing music and memories?

DAMN, this is nice.

But is it what I pictured a year ago?

Honestly, I don’t think I pictured anything too specific a year ago. I knew I was planning to be touring New England with Shawn and Craig with the Charlie Brown Christmas show. What I didn’t know for certain is that we would all have our health, our wits, and our skills intact, that we would shoulder through all the storms, literal and figurative, that we would be here at all to do any of it, and continue to deepen our connection to and love for and trust in one another. There is, of course, never any guarantee of any of that, for any one of us.

But yeah, this current moment, this frame in time, here and now? I’ll take more of this, please and thank you.

And thank you, dear reader! And Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown! And happy holidays to one and all. Whatever you celebrate – if you celebrate – I hope it brings you joy.

The gravy of gratitude.

Tags

birding, gratitude, mindfulness, Thanksgiving

Anything I want to be better at – piano, guitar, singing, songwriting, cooking, birding, gratitude, mindfulness – requires practice.

I’m slowly getting better at birding. I was so excited to spot this big flock of bohemian waxwings on Thanksgiving Day up in Gorham, NH!

I’m getting pretty good at gratitude, too.

My gratitude practice used to be this: at the end of the day before bed, I’d write down a few things for which I was grateful that day on each page of a 4ishx3ish composition notebook. One little page per day.

Over time, the daily exercise moved from pencil and paper to simply contemplating these things before turning in for the night.

After years of practice, I find that, no matter how sour my mood, I can almost instantly tap into a feeling of gratitude for even the smallest thing, like, ‘I’m grateful that I’m wearing my favorite socks right now.’

I think of any skill as a delicious gravy, and my brain is the biscuit into which it is (hopefully) settling and improving.

Many of us gathered this past week around food and connection to family – and perhaps the sharing of their gratitude – on a day that is set aside for these things. Then, many of us got swept up the very next morning – with Thanksgiving dinner still in the belly – in the hustle and bustle of Black Friday, spending money on things, looking for deals, perhaps pushing past others to get this or that for this person or that person.

Many of us have gotten a lot of practice being consumers in our lives. And many of us are ‘good’ at it.

I wonder – does the skill of being a ‘good shopper’ lead to a more satisfying life? That’s a question we can each quietly ask ourselves, and then listen carefully for the answer.

I also wonder – wouldn’t it be amazing if we could, as a culture, move away from these practices of acquiring stuff and instead creating and sharing more meaningful experiences? To bring more reflective practices into every day, week, month, year, moment of our lives? To cultivate more gratitude, more sit-down meals with loved ones, more connection to one another and to our experience in each moment?

Let that gravy sink in.

Still here, still thankful.

Tags

birds, gratitude, grief, winter

Winter weather suddenly arrived here this week, and with it, a flood (or a flurry, if you will?) of questions:

Where are all my gloves and hats?

Is it time for a new winter jacket?

How are my tires?

And again: Am I ready for this?

And there was another arrival this week – about a dozen evening grosbeaks, eager for food. And they’ve stuck around, too! It’s been awesome to watch them. Every day, about mid morning, they all show up, eat for a while, and then disappear.

The birds are always ready for anything, so long as they have enough to eat.

Ah hell, me too.

Yesterday marks 24 years since my father’s death. That seems impossible to me. I’ve now lived more than half my life without him. That seems impossible to me, too…

…because it is impossible.

Yes, he’s been gone physically – and though I don’t believe, as many do, that I will see him again or that he’s still with me in some metaphysical sense, I do believe – dare I say, know – that he is still right here. In half my genome. In my humor. In both my taste and ability in music. In the values I hold dear. In the mirror.

And my mother is equally still here, too, in those same places. And I thought of her immediately when those grosbeaks arrived. She loved feeding the birds, and in particular enjoyed the many grosbeaks that visited the yard when I was growing up. In my rebellion, I pretended not to notice. It wasn’t until the last couple years that I finally fell in love with the birds, too.

This week, many of us will gather with loved ones to eat too much and shoot the breeze. Every day of the year, every moment of the day, there is so much to be thankful for – family, friends, birds, memories, shelter from the cold, winter tires, home-cooked meals, even grief. Happy Thanksgiving.

Hope and trust written in chalk.

Tags

anxiety, gratitude, mindfulness, musician, touring

This past Saturday night was the first of the last Acoustic Trio shows, and it was a big deal for us – Caffe Lena, the legendary listening room in Saratoga Springs, NY. We’d played there before, and it is always special there.

I’ve been experiencing a strange mix of excitement and dread recently. The sudden return to what feels like the normal I remember of ‘B.C.’ – driving, setting up, soundchecking, playing, greeting friends and fans, sleeping, rinse lather repeat – has been the driving force behind this recent emotional tug of war. The pandemic is still very much here, and still leaving 400ish dead each day, on track to 100k Americans dead each year.

So, I’ve been making friends with anxiety again.

Part of normal touring life is staying in cheap motels, and also with friends of friends and friendly strangers. I’ve always enjoyed this aspect. But as I put fingers to keyboard recently and put out feelers for housing, I was fully aware of what a huge ask this is. Putting on in-person shows and getting butts in seats is hard enough in these strange ‘pandemic-is-kinda-over-but-not-really’ times – but asking some friend of a friend of a friend if you can sleep in their guest room? It’s a big deal.

So, as I was connected with a friend of friend, I felt so grateful – and also super anxious.

The show was great – the friends and fans who came out, and the venue staff and volunteers, were all beautiful.

Shawn and I got the last of the gear loaded up, and navigated to the friendly stranger’s house. And I was feeling nervous. The street was dark and quiet. We didn’t even know which door to go to.

I’ve forgotten how to do this, I thought.

Then, there was the light on at the side door and the two friendly smiling faces (human and dog) to greet us as warmly as you could hope. And there, just in front of her kitchen door – a message of hope and trust written in chalk: ‘Welcome Heather & pals.’

And in a flash, I felt so much more at ease.

As we made our way in with our gear, I briefly expressed my anxiousness to our host, who understood completely and responded by putting the kettle on for tea. She showed us around the house, and then excused herself to bed.

Perfection.

The next morning, we all shoved off in our respective directions, all feeling a bit more hopeful and trusting in a future that has always been uncertain, even before the pandemic.

And the coffee was delicious.

More road adventures await this weekend, and for the rest of this month. I’m taking it all one mile and one moment at a time.

Day 5: Feeling grateful for gratitude.

Tags

gratitude, meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

At the halfway point of the retreat, I had surrendered entirely to the whole experience. I was feeling light and relaxed, and the nature of the things I jotted down in my notebook that day (and there were only a few throughout the whole retreat) were reflections upon specific people at specific moments in my life – people that I wanted to thank, either with a phone call or a letter.

I was, in short, awash in gratitude. Gratitude for the kindness or the friendship or the lesson that one or another person or experience had shown me or taught me at some point in the past.

And then I noticed something else – that I was grateful for the feeling of gratitude itself. It was a very freeing sensation, similar to the experience that is possible when you simply turn your attention upon itself. This deepening of practice invites more curious questions:

Who or where is the one who is thinking/asking/feeling/remembering?

What or where are the thoughts/questions/experiences/memories?

Everywhere and nowhere.

Simply put, there is only now.

That’s it.

That’s always been true, and will always be.

Letting go and remembering this simple fact was and is a revelation, the importance and preciousness of which cannot be overstated.

That’s it.

And I’m grateful to you for reading this and giving these ideas a chance to germinate in the soil of your awareness.

Empty houses and full hearts.

Tags

friendship, gratitude, life, touring

(A lovely little spinet that I got to know this weekend)

The acoustic trio was back out on the road this weekend, playing a short run of shows that included stops in Chicagoland and just west of Ann Arbor. It’s been exciting and strange to be out on the road again, and while I have enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy, live-streaming, seeing and performing for folks in three dimensions again and watching the corners of their eyes tugged into smiles above their masks has been tremendously satisfying and nourishing.

In the time I refer to as B.C., I had no qualms about asking friends and fans about sleeping in spare bedrooms, on couches, sometimes on floors. It’s part of the touring experience – one of the many perks, in fact. This time around, I was feeling rather sheepish about reaching out and asking for what really amounts to a huge favor. We are still living through a pandemic, after all, and maybe folks would rather not be asked if three musicians can stay in their home, and not have to say ‘NO’ to someone that they would otherwise say ‘YES’ to, because they are feeling understandably uncomfortable. Hell, *I* felt uncomfortable, too! What extraordinary times we are living in.

I did put out a couple of feelers, and so did my Chicagoland buddy Joe Jencks (thank you Joe!), and much to my delight, he reconnected me with someone I already know who has an apartment right in the city. She was going to be out of town anyway, and why yes, we could stay there. Holy moly! An apartment all to ourselves in one of my favorite cities, quiet and clean and comfortable, and I even got to play some rags on her spinet on Saturday afternoon. What a gift.

We performed on Sunday afternoon in Hudson, Michigan, and I’d alerted some friends in Ann Arbor ahead of time, one of whom said she would be out of town, and that we were welcome to stay in her home afterwards… which is precisely what Shawn and I did last night. While Davy headed back towards Erie to be with family, we relaxed our travel-weary bones in the peaceful quiet of my friend’s empty house, surrounded once again by evidence of a full and well-lived life – and by love and support, filling our hearts to the brim.

This morning, the early morning light coming through the backyard oaks is especially clear and sweet, and all I can think is, I am a lucky so-and-so.

Noun – verb – repeat

Tags

camping, gratitude, life

Camper packed

Miles driven

Turns taken

Site acquired

Anchor dropped

Raindrops tapping

Knife chopping

Onions sizzling

Dinner eaten

Dishes washed

Kettle whistling

Tea steeping

Cards shuffled

Hands dealt

Dreams flashing

Sun shining

Nuthatches laughing

Goldfinches calling

Chipmunks snapping

Muscles stretched

Coffee steeping

Lines written

Ideas flowing

Guitar strummed

Notes hummed

Bees buzzing

Walks taken

Heartbeat slowing

Lungs breathing

Footsteps crunching

Loons calling

Water shimmering

Children swimming

Grandparents watching

Dogs chasing

Dragonflies dancing

Men fishing

Crickets singing

Sun setting

Colors shifting

Photos taken

Silence savored

Memories stored

Spirits rejuvenated

Gratitude restored

I’m grateful for complaining.

Tags

gratitude, life

July 4th weekend is usually a big hairy deal here in the Mount Washington Valley. Lots of tourists and weekend warriors coming up to the mountains to get away from it all – or to bring it all here.

And, after a week of blistering heat and humidity, it rained non-stop starting on Friday morning.

My heart goes out to the kids who wanted to be playing outside all weekend; to the parents who were looking forward to putting their feet up and watching those kids run around from a safe, sunny distance; to the carnies who aren’t making any money on town greens selling their snake-oil-style-games; to the waitstaff who are on their feet all day, no matter what the weather is doing; to all the folks who planned and built their float parades for weeks and months, only to be kept parked in their garages the morning of.

And add to that list of complaints now the incredible sunshine that is now shining down from the cloudless sky as everyone packs up and begins the drive south. I can just hear all those drivers now, shaking their heads in disappointment as they watch what is arguably the nicest day we’ve had in ages shine through their windshields.

I found myself complaining a bit this weekend, too – about my anxiety about the future; about having an overwhelmingly long to-do list; about – you guessed it – the rain (and only just a little – I *had* been complaining recently about the worrying lack of rain).

So much disappointment, so much to complain about – and with each harangue, I try balancing it with a measure of gratitude. I mean, aren’t I lucky that I can complain about anything at all? That I’m happy and healthy; that I live in a safe, secure, beautiful place with people I love, creating music and writing that I share with folks who, in turn, support me in countless ways that sustain and nurture my needs? Lucky indeed.

There will always be uncertainty. There will always be something to complain about. We’ve all gotten lots of practice and we’re good at it! And so long as I always practice gratitude, too, then the anxiety and the frustration will be like those rain clouds that hang around for a bit – sometimes for a whole weekend – and then move on.

This is what trust looks like.

Tags

gratitude, interdependence, life, trust

We arrived in San Francisco on Friday morning after a grueling night of travel—90 minutes in the car, 75 minutes on the bus, nearly 7 hours on the sold-out flight. With next to no sleep, stiff and sore, we gathered up our luggage and stepped out into the fresh air and hailed a cab.

Everyone in sight was masked, including the four of us, and keeping at a safe and respectful distance.

We made our way to the Airbnb in North Beach, stunned into silence by both the beauty and the hustle and bustle that surrounded us on our way. We met our masked hosts outside, made our way upstairs to the apartment, got the lay of the land, got settled in, and then dived right into wearing ourselves out even further on the first day—food, coffee, hot chocolate, the constant wind off the ocean, gawking at everything in sight, racking up thousands of steps walking up and down hills that would be impossible to navigate in a New England winter.

Everyone in sight was masked, including the four of us, and keeping at a safe and respectful distance.

I could launch into a detailed list of everything we’ve seen so far, but I won’t—not because I don’t want to share the awe and excitement of what we’ve been experiencing here, but because I’m feeling more moved to express how incredibly grateful I am to be here at all, to experience any measure of this world, the very idea which, after the last 14 months, seems like a miracle to me.

It hit me most clearly when Shawn and I made our way on Sunday afternoon down the steep path to Mile Rock Beach and we took in the stunning view on offer there.

I looked around this little cove and saw families and couples and lone travelers, folks of all ages and walks of life, relaxing and enjoying themselves in this beautiful place, and still, everyone in sight was standing by with masks, including us, and keeping at a safe and respectful distance.

This is how we got through, and continue to get through. By keeping ourselves and each other safe as best as we could, we get through—to trust those who developed and created and administered the vaccines; to trust every other driver on the road and every passenger on the flight and everyone on every sidewalk and walking path. We trust one another to take care of one another.

And this has always been our circumstance—we each have trust in so many people, most of whom we’ll never know and never get to thank personally. Every single individual in our food chain; the line of people responsible for the successful turn of every water tap and the throw of every light switch. The list is nearly infinite. If the pandemic has taught me anything, it is the fact of our interdependence, which can only exist with a certain measure of trust.

And I don’t mean faith, which is belief in something without evidence. What I’m pondering here is a reasoned trust—we believe in one another and we hold each other up because it’s the tried and true way that we hold ourselves up, too. Every link in the chain is only as strong as the weakest, and each one is essential to the health and success of every other.

And this extends to the very trust in this beautiful earth that holds us all in place and provides everything that any one of us would ever need to survive and thrive in this life. Everything is possible because we trust the earth, and one another, to hold us.

Earlier in the day, the four of us were sitting in the restful paradise of the Japanese tea garden at Golden Gate Park. After we had finished our snacks, Shawn asked, ‘I’m assuming that no one wants to visit the gift shop?’ We all shook our heads silently, and then Ann said, ‘The gift is out here.’