Trash and treasure.

Tags

life, mindfulness, Song Village

My heart and mind are so full from a beautiful experience at Song Village this past weekend in the Santa Cruz mountains. Bernice and I led a song circle on Friday afternoon, and we were also invited to lead a song in the closing circle on Sunday morning, where we offered Bernice’s ‘May Peace Prevail Upon Earth’. What a gift to hear a hundred voices lifting that song and that hope into the air!

Five of us – Bernice and I, Shawn, Ann, and friend and fellow song leader Roberta Kirn – shared an Airbnb nearby for the week. During our narrow and winding commute each day, I never failed to notice this one particular turnout spot that offered a view of the valley, of more distant mountains, of the fog over the sea to the southwest – and also of a large pile of garbage purposefully dumped there. Kitchen trash, a pink bucket, a child’s toy xylophone, plastic bags, fast food scraps.

Each day we passed by this scene, and each day I would experience the same range of distinct flashes of emotion – awe at the beauty; anger at the trash; curiosity about the person who dumped it; prickles of fear of the sheer drop into the valley from that turnout.

On Saturday evening, as we made our way down the mountain from Song Village, we made a point to stop at what I’d named ‘Trash Turnout’ to witness the last pastels of the sunset and the breathtaking, salmon-colored full moon rising. As we stood for a few moments mostly silent, save for the crunching of our feet over the sandy gravel, we all pulled our phones out to take photos. At first, I was careful to avoid any view of the garbage in my photos, eager to capture only the beauty. Then, as I paid attention to my aversion, I laughed quietly to myself and decided to take one last photo of the moon rising over the valley and the trash, to remind me of this experience.

There is both trash and treasure in this world, and its beauty and ugliness exist solely in my perception of both. I hope to continue to strike the right balance in my own heart in how I show up for both.

Hope in the ashes.

Tags

hope, life, mindfulness, Sequoia National Forest, wildfires

Having spent most of my life in New England, the idea of wildfires has been mostly an abstraction, something that happens elsewhere, somewhere far away. After spending nearly a month on the West Coast, from the PNW all the way down to LA, I have been developing my awareness of these all-too-frequent-out-here events.

Seeing DOT signs that read ‘Controlled Burn – Do Not Report’ has been a bit alien, startling. The most gripping sights of all, of course, have been those of the evidence of the fires themselves – entire mountainsides and hillsides blackened; thousands of evergreens stripped of their needles, standing like skeletons in a forest boneyard; one side of a sequoia golden and healthy, and the other side deeply scarred by flame; stumps of ancient redwoods hollowed by flame.

During our time in Camp Nelson, we took many walks in the Sequoia National Forest, and one of the most arresting scenes was the one pictured above – a stand of young trees, standing lifeless, some having succumbed to the ravages of gravity, some spray-painted near their base in bright pink with numbers – perhaps they were marked for rehabilitation, or for removal? I wondered. Along one road, with snow capped mountains peering down from the distance, this was the scene, everywhere you looked – the devastating, irremovable mark of fire, leaving nothing untouched.

And yet, just as common a sight was one of hope – springing up underneath the destruction was the greenest, lushest grass I’ve ever seen, made even more so by recent rainfall and frequent fog.

It’s easy to draw the parallels to my own lived daily life: some destructive force entirely out of my control threatens – or manages – to take it all down, and then from the ashes comes the arrival of what is useful and supportive to the renewal of purpose and of life itself. Rising up, falling away, again and again.

I’ll keep walking, and looking, and certainly finding the evidence of this endless cycle of death and rebirth, for as long as I’m able.

Adding a dimension.

Tags

awareness, life, nature, touring, Washington

This past week on the road has been a whirlwind. Shawn and I have covered thousands of miles of ground across this vast, beautiful country, and at every stop along the way, I’ve had the distinct pleasure of adding a dimension to all kinds of relationships and experiences:

What a joy it was to sing in person with Chris in Columbus, Kmbris in Wenatchee, and Sarah in Kingston. What a joy to hear their voices in person, to see each of them step out of a tiny Zoom square and into real life!

We waited in line for two hours for the Edmonds ferry to carry us across Puget Sound to Kingston. I’ve seen photos of this crossing, of how the mountains to the west rise above the sound like a jawful of jagged white teeth, but what a thrill to be able to add the dimension of sound – the hum of the boat and the splashing of the wake; the chatter of excited tourists and children; the cries of sea birds; the wind in our ears; the bump of the ferry boat against the dock; the starting up of dozens of vehicles making their exit.

We spent some precious time with GwenEllyn in Salem – someone we only have known online – and there we were, standing at her door, hugging her, sitting at her baby grand piano, standing in her kitchen, sleeping under her roof, leaving our glow-in-the-dark handprints on the ceiling.

We stood on the banks of the Wenatchee River, feeling exhilarated and terrified and gobsmacked by its power, contemplating the incredible volume of snowmelt, and considering the salmon who are, as I type these words, tirelessly making their way against that current to carry out their biological mandate. There is no way to fully fathom how incredible that migration is without staring into the face of those raging rivers.

We have shared our songs and ourselves with so many new friends in all of these new-to-us places, and experienced the joy and the connection that comes along with all of that. So many open doors and cupboards and hearts, so many more magical moments behind us, so many more to come…

We have a couple of days off now here in Bend, and we plan to soak up some more beauty and rest before moving on to Eugene, Grants Pass, and then south to California for the rest of the tour.

Here’s wishing you multi-dimensional experiences that spark your curiosity and nourish your spirit!

I know those cables…

Tags

knitting, life, touring

We had a great time at the Central Ohio Folk Festival this past weekend.  We got to connect with old friends, meet new ones, and even spend some time with folks we’d only known in 2D before – everything is better in 3D, isn’t it?

We stayed in the Clintonville neighborhood of Columbus on Friday night at the home of a CFMS volunteer and new friend named Linda.  She makes a fine vegan chili, I tell you.  

On Saturday morning, I sat down in the living room to have a cup of coffee and do some writing when I noticed a knitted afghan on the living room couch, and it stopped me in my tracks.

I recognized the cable pattern immediately.   

My mother used to knit this one, I thought.  And in this exact color, too!  

It even had row of three-tailed tassels along the top and bottom edges, just like she used to make them.

I wonder if this is one of hers? 

My mom’s knitting was well known.  She knitted and shipped so many afghans and baby blankets and placemats and dishcloths for friends and family all over the world.  And here I was, in Columbus, Ohio, admiring this beautiful afghan. I picked it up and looked for the personalized tag she put on many of her creations and did not find it. 

Linda walked in a few minutes later, and during the conversation, I said, pointing, ‘I was admiring that afghan.’

She immediately said, ‘Would you like to have it?’

I laughed a little.  ‘Oh no, that’s alright—‘ to which she immediately responded with, ‘I have no sentimental attachment to it.  I found it secondhand and thought it would go well with the couch.’

I was so tempted to take it.  

The only afghan of my mother’s that I have is one that was knitted for a dear friend who gave it to me when she learned that I had never been the recipient of one of my mother’s many creations.  (It’s one that I’ve blogged about before.)

I stood there, pondering for a moment, and finally I said, ‘It does go well with the couch.’

And there it remains.

After Linda had left, I carefully folded the afghan lengthwise and laid it across the back of the couch, and I’m so happy to know that it’s still there, regardless of who created it.

Breaks in the clouds.

Tags

awareness, gratitude, life, meditation, mindfulness, spring

It’s been raining nearly nonstop here in northern New England. ‘Tis the season for those April showers, and when I got up on this very wet, gray, first morning of May, I felt a longing for more flowers than I’ve been seeing. Then, as soon as that thought appeared, I reflected on the past week and remembered that those blooms don’t always have to appear in the garden. There were lots of gorgeous flowers that appeared like breaks in the clouds this past week, and here are just a few:

• I started composing a brand new vocal piece that I tried out at Sunday’s community sing, and hearing something like that take shape out in the real world is always such a thrill!

• Shawn and I went exploring in our neighborhood the other day and spotted a pair of loons on the pond! We’ve only seen one loon at a time the last couple of years, and it warmed my heart to see the pair together diving for fish.

• And speaking of birds, I had such a blast watching a lone yellow bellied sapsucker working on the maple tree in the side yard the other day. And, I heard my first vireo of the year, too!

• On Sunday evening, we attended a local show that included the appearance of a beloved student performing with her brothers, who received a thunderous ovation – and then at intermission, I randomly reconnected with an old friend when the two of us least expected it.

• While searching for something else on YouTube the other day, I happened upon a video of one of my songs being sung in the UK to help folks in memory care units. I was already aware that this group, Shared Harmonies, was using this particular song in this way, and still, what a beautiful surprise to hear it in action!

• Did I mention the shipping notification I received for the arrival of the second Heart Songs & Circle Songs CD, slated for tomorrow??

There are at least a hundred more instances like this from just this past week alone – these rays of sunshine piercing through the clouds to remind me of the necessity of a balance between sun and rain to keep the soil fertile enough for the seeds of all these experiences to take root and find their way towards the light. It’s easy (for me, anyway) to allow doubt, impatience, and frustration to cloud the mind and obscure the beauty that is always available, always unfolding, always appearing just as it is. And I am learning, one week and day and moment at a time, to observe life just as it is, all while paying attention to the attitude of mind without defaulting to the old habits of self-judgment.

Here’s wishing you a week full of beautiful blooms that are unfolding at their own pace!

Spitballing (part 2)

Tags

life, musician, touring, writing

I could write about the beautiful Eastern towhee I spotted in the backyard of our Rhode Island hosts on Sunday morning.

I could write about the man who smiled at me at the close of Saturday’s show and said, ‘I don’t remember the last time I even thought of Dave Brubeck – thank you for reminding me of him and how much I love his music!’

I could write about getting my taxes done just in the nick of time (and why do I always put it off so long?).

I could write about that Stieff I played on Friday night (wow, did it sing!) and the Steinway model A I got to play on Saturday morning (wow, did it sing!).

I could write about how fun it was for two friends that met through me in a Zoom room got to meet in person on Friday night.

I could write about the beautiful homes we stayed at this weekend, and the sweet and lovely homeowners who opened their doors and cupboards and hearts to us.

I could write about that brief, wild thunderstorm.

I could write about the dirty piles of snow that are still persisting in the shadier places near my home.

I could write about the pair of mourning doves that have been chasing each other around the yard all week.

I could write about the two very full days in the studio this past week with five of my favorite humans, all in an effort to bring a dear friend’s songs to life.

I could write about the young guy who rang up my purchase at Staples the other day who assured me that, ‘Your Rewards card is really not that important in the grand scheme of things’ and how we both laughed.

I could write about the woman on Saturday night who told me how much our live-streams meant to her during the pandemic.

I could write about how exhilarating it was and is to make music with Shawn and Craig, to really feel it, and to see and feel how it landed on folks this weekend.

I could write about all of these things… but I suppose I ought to choose just one of them and focus on that.

Maybe next time.

Changing the world a song at a time.

Tags

community singing, hope, life, songwriting

It’s easy to lose heart in a world as noisy and chaotic as ours. There is so much work to be done, and so many able hands and hearts needed to do it all.

When you’re in the line of work I’m in – which I described yesterday to the community sing circle Bernice and I led here in Conway as ‘spreading joy around’ – it can get really disheartening sometimes. Am I singing these songs just for myself? I have asked myself in more quiet, more tired, more depressed moments. After glancing at the news at any given hour, meaningful music making can sure seem like a Sisyphean task.

My friend Davy Sturtevant once wrote a song that briefly gives voice to this frustration that songwriters often experience with the lyric, ‘We’re changing the world a song at a time / in the land of the never was.’

Yesterday at the sing, I shared a song of mine that I often teach at our community sings called ‘These Hands, This Heart.’ Since we had a bunch of new-to-us folks in the circle, I introduced the song by sharing my vision for it. I explained, ‘I have always pictured folks marching in the streets singing this song – not in anger, but in nonviolent, peaceful demonstration in support of some worthy cause.’

Our friend Bets, whom we hadn’t seen in ages, was in attendance yesterday, and as soon as I’d finished introducing the song and was about to start singing it, she burst out, ‘It’s already happening!’ I paused for a beat, and then she told us all the story of how she participated in the Poor People’s Campaign in D.C. last June. Remembering my vision for the song, she told us that she taught the song to a busload of folks from Maine who were traveling down to join the thousands of others who were converging upon the nation’s capital. ‘We were singing it all the way,’ she told us, beaming as she shared the story.

I was speechless for just a moment, and I nearly burst into joyful tears.

Each of us can change the world – one song, one heart, one mind at a time. It’s the belief that spurs me on every day that I’m lucky enough to make music for a living.

These hands will do the work
These feet will carry me
These arms will be welcoming to what these eyes can see
This heart will stay open to the possibility
And the love in this heart will set me free

The puzzle of calculating risk.

Tags

life, risk

On a recent walk to the pond, Shawn and I noted the appearance of the first bob house of the season.

‘Geez,’ I said reflexively to Shawn, ‘that seems risky to me.’ We had both just turned a moment before to look down the stretch of the pond and notice the large gaping mouth of dark frigid open water just yards from where the ice fisherman was set up.

‘I’m sure they measured the ice, ‘ Shawn said quietly, ‘otherwise they wouldn’t be out there.’

Of course, I thought. Not everyone is as risk averse about this sort of thing as I am.

‘I really want to walk across the pond this winter once the ice is more fully formed,’ Shawn added, another idea that shivers my limbs.

It’s so fascinating how our feelings and needs lead us all on such a variety of paths – the ice fisherman wants to catch fish, and maybe seeks the peace and solitude of the bob house; Shawn wants to walk across a frozen body of water, seeking that same peace and solitude, and also fun and beauty; I want to simply stand on the beach, where there is plenty of peace, solitude, and beauty for my risk-averse bones.

That calculation of risk never ceases. If all goes to plan, this afternoon I will drive an hour to a gathering of folks who are hoping to learn from me in a music workshop offering. It’s still snowing as I type these words, and so the calculations are being run. When will the snow stop? Will the roads be clear enough?

A week from now, Shawn and I will be driving to Kansas City to the Folk Alliance International conference, where we have an official showcase this year. There’s always a risk in that long of a road trip – or any time spent in a car, really – and yet I feel as confident in all of those calculations as the ice fisherman does in their own.

The travels of both body and mind are plenty enough to keep us all curious, that’s for sure! So whatever you’re up to today and every day, I wish you safe and happy travels, both internally and externally.

So many ways to celebrate in so few days.

Tags

birthday, celebrate, celebration, life

I turned 47 this weekend, and to mark the occasion, I posted this photo on my social media, remarking that it had been forty years since it was taken. Though I don’t really remember the moment from the inside, there are so many memories that were conjured by the photo: the excitement of being a kid; the taste of cheap chocolate frosting; Seamus, our Irish wolfhound, hoping desperately for a taste; being nervous about sitting next to a cute boy; the unbelievably loud wallpaper on the dining room wall; the hiss of the radiators throughout that old house; my dad’s old Minolta that he kept in the dining room closet and brought out for these kinds of occasions; remembering how much I loved that shirt I was wearing, the one with the hearts all over it.

Just like that – forty years come and gone, like the birthday candles I blew out with a wide-eyed, Dizzy Gillespie expression on my face.

Forty years later to the day of the snapping of that photo, I found myself sitting in a beautiful barn in western Maine, witnessing the marriage of two people I’m just getting to know. The groom is a friend of Shawn’s, and now becoming a friend of mine. The ceremony was simple, sweet, and heartfelt. I sat with Shawn and two dear friends. I ate food. I met new people. I reconnected with old friends and acquaintances. I blew bubbles. I danced to whatever the DJ spun. I played some blues on an old Acrosonic in a quiet corner by request of the groom. I drank tea and spilled some on my dress. New deposits in the memory bank. It was an awesome way to celebrate life!

I hope that forty years from now, the newly married couple will look back at their wedding photos and savor the memories conjured by them – the warmth and presence of their friends and family; the promises they made to one another; the sparkle in each other’s eyes. And I also hope they realize how quickly – and hopefully, how beautifully – the previous decades have flown by.

There are so many ways to celebrate the fact that we’re alive, and we only have so many days in which to do the celebrating. So, get out on that dance floor before the music stops!

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.