Much as I adore the twinkle of Christmas lights and the burst of color they create in the winter season, I must confess to a certain feeling of relief when the decorations come down, the tree goes back to be recycled and homes, once again, give off their welcoming light through the windows. It's almost like the feeling I get when a party I give, so carefully planned, is over - it was fun to prepare, exciting to dress up and host, and joyful to experience. But when it's done, it's a different kind of pleasure to kick off my heels, change into comfortable clothes and do the clean up as I reflect on all that has transpired.
After all the bright hues of the holiday, the kind of light given off by a January moon feels crisp, clear and rather quiet. A quality of light that encourages introspection and reflection on the year just passed as well as plans and prospects for the brand new one. It may well be part of my New England upbringing that after the weeks of celebration and indulgence that mark the Thanksgiving to New Year's period, I usually feel ready to "buckle down" in predictable ways, more time at the gym, getting rid of some of the excess "stuff" that has found its way into my home and closets, and doing some of the maintenance that keeps life running in semi-smooth fashion. And this year, I am particularly aware of the need to extend that inventory of tasks to my internal space - rummaging through my mental closets to see what I might be holding onto that is now outdated, or no longer fits. Negative attitudes, exaggerated fears, hurt feelings, old grudges can all take up room - so questioning them and opening space for new creative and more satisfying ways of seeing our lives and the possibilities they contain can be refreshing.
In that spirit, a few thoughts on some of the events that moved me during the holiday season and helped to remind me of what I want to keep in my consciousness this year. Our holiday this year was affected by the death of one of my husband's older siblings, who lived nearly five hundred miles away. She had been ill, but death came rather suddenly and my husband had to fly out quickly to make the wake and service. He is the youngest of a very large family, so this sad task of burying siblings has already happened, and has a strong probability of being repeated in the future. It so happened that the funeral was celebrated on the same day as our anniversary, a day we have always observed with a special private pleasure as it has "kicked off" the Christmas season for us in such a meaningful way. This year, instead of planning a night out at a fancy restaurant, we spent the day exchanging a number of brief phone calls. The emotion in his voice was obvious - and it was a combination of deep sadness at the loss of a somewhat distant sibling who had left home when he was a small child, mixed with the happiness of meeting a number of her children he had never known, and the unexpected gift of spending time with other siblings and nieces and nephews. I was at a bit of a loss as to how to mark the day when he arrived home, which would be around nine that evening. But I decided that although the circumstances were unusual, the way to end the day was to share what we always do, a meal, a dialogue, and the knowledge that as we had vowed many years before, we would be there for each other in the best and in the worst of times. This particular evening was certainly not the best of times, but I cooked dinner, iced some champagne, put it in the shiny red bucket and set up the table with the Christmas centerpiece.
The look on his face when he came in and sat down was confirmation that my instincts were good. We sat for a long time and talked about all that had transpired over the two days and he seemed really at peace with the way things had unfolded. He spoke at the funeral service and I know his words were deeply comforting for the family. Being the kind of guy he is, with little time to prepare, he just squared his shoulders, stepped up and did the right thing. Exactly the kind of behavior that attracted me in the first place, and after all these years, it still knocks me out.
Oh , and we had agreed to go easy on gifts, so I gave him the few inexpensive trinkets I had, realizing there was no way he would have time to even think about getting me anything. Then he reaches into his luggage and produces a bag from an airport gift shop. From it he pulls out two beautiful wool shawls (one of my known material weaknesses) and hands them to me. "I wanted to bring you something.."
We sat a while longer in the dining room - sad about the loss, keenly aware of the bitter, but so glad for the sweet , sitting right there with us.
The other vignettes from the holiday that registered at heart level include a Christmas Eve gathering at our home that brought close friends, along with the newest generation in the form of my godson's son. Having this four week old being in the house felt magical and a spontaneous round of carols sung in harmony, must have been triggered by his presence. The things that constrain us seemed to melt away and everybody left carrying a quiet kind of happiness.
On Christmas day, we joined my brother and his family, where my ten year old nephew met me at the door with the news that he had gotten me a present that I would "love!" He waited patiently through dinner and when we began the exchange, he rushed over triumphant, and handed me the present he had obviously wrapped. Eyes shining, he watched me uncover the sparkly green and gold glass pendant strung on bright green ribbons. When I expressed my awe at the gift, he regarded me with pure glee. "Now, Aunty Syl," I know when you look at this, you might think I paid a hundred dollars. But guess what--THREE DOLLARS, can you believe that?" Three dollars, three million dollars - by any measure, priceless. Every time I look at that pendant, the refrain from a song by Manfred Mann's Earth Band starts playing in my head. I am "...blinded by the light.."
So here's my wish for the coming year - may we all find a light that soothes, refreshes and inspires ... Happy New Year!
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
a new world view...
I love clean windows!
Looking out on the world through worn, scratched and paint flecked windows has long been a minor vexation for me. So the recent chance to replace all of our windows with energy efficient, planet-helping (but mostly clean and shiny!) new ones has been the highlight of my year. We live in a home where many of the windows were fixed and air flow was greatly restricted. So we also took the opportunity to reconfigure some of them, so that we now have fresh air throughout more of our living space - talk about a win/win!
Updating the windows has thrown my already entrenched window-gazing habit into high gear - and our new world view has caused me to go deep into reflection (sorry...). So here are some thoughts generally related to how we "see" things and why shaking up that view can be good for head and heart.
Shortly after our new windows were installed, we had a quick and highly satisfying visit from my sister and her husband, her son, daughter in law and their young family in tow. I was scrambling around to find toys for the little ones - our stash is fairly scanty- but I happened upon a bonanza in the garage when I discovered a box of transformers collected long ago by my son, and a group of WWF action figures, as both my kids were quite the wrestling fans when they were young...go figure. ( In fact the wrestling action figures now include at least one former governor of a midwestern state - but that's a story for another time). So I gave myself a mental high five as I set about washing them all in warm soapy water and happily anticipated the yelps of pleasure from my little grand nephew when he came through the back gate to see them proudly arrayed out on the deck.
Our guests arrived while daylight was just beginning to wane and as I led them from the driveway through the gate, my grand nephew raced ahead. As he got into the yard, he gazed up at our trees, then down at the ground, and let out a an excited holler. "Wow" he shouted gleefully to his grandparents and his big sister. "Look at all these acorns!" He immediately sank to his knees, loaded up a yellow plastic truck he had brought with him, and spent the next few days loading and transporting his precious cargo from one site to another. In fact he asked for a small sack in which to transport some of his acorn booty back to his Lousianna home - we were only too happy to oblige. Watching him play so imaginatively with his acorn stash was such a powerful reminder of the value of having "fresh eyes". What we had construed as a nuisance was absolutely magical to this young boy, and the avalanche of acorns dropping daily was proof to him of a generous and abundant universe. I must confess that since his visit the pinging of acorns on the roof and the patio table has a much more joyful quality and my backyard sweeps of our bumper crop of acorns have triggered smiles as I marvel at the volume of them. Seen through a child's eye, the acorns are an ongoing celebration, one I hope I can continue to "see".
The day after Thanksgiving offered another chance to see something familiar in a novel and riveting way. I live near the Live Oaks Friends Meeting House and their gathering place boasts a "Skyspace" designed by artist James Turrell. They open the space each Friday about an hour before sunset and invite the community in to view sunset through what is essentially a large cutout in the roof, which rolls open so that you are gazing directly at the sky. As I sat in the pew looking up, at first I was not sure if I was viewing the sky or light reflected from a skylight. A flock of migrating birds, then a passing airplane quickly oriented me to the reality that I was watching a "slice of sky". And what proceeded to happen in that space in the next hour is really impossible to capture in language. Much of the time, the light appeared gauzy, with tiny wisps of peach, pink, and then deepening shades wafting by. While the picture appeared unchanging to a casual glance, fixed attention to that sliver of sky revealed huge shifts from moment to moment. But the real action began shortly after sunset. Our sliver began to shift through a spectrum of shades that I have never before witnessed. From a gray blue to an incredibly celestial blue then to almost an electric blue, segueing then into an intense midnight bluish purple, before doing a slow fade into a blue black. As the colors faded, the stars began to pop into view - much like diamonds suddenly dumped out onto black velvet. The only sounds in the meeting house were people breathing and occasionally murmuring to themselves. At one point my eyes stung and filled - both from the intensity of the looking and the heart bursting wonder of "seeing" something available everyday - as I had never seen it before. Let me just say this, the thankfulness I felt the day before increased exponentially with each minute I remained seated. As an opportunity to be present and grateful, I highly recommend it.
And in this profoundly lovely and slowed down time of year - here's to "seeing" with more than just our eyes.
Looking out on the world through worn, scratched and paint flecked windows has long been a minor vexation for me. So the recent chance to replace all of our windows with energy efficient, planet-helping (but mostly clean and shiny!) new ones has been the highlight of my year. We live in a home where many of the windows were fixed and air flow was greatly restricted. So we also took the opportunity to reconfigure some of them, so that we now have fresh air throughout more of our living space - talk about a win/win!
Updating the windows has thrown my already entrenched window-gazing habit into high gear - and our new world view has caused me to go deep into reflection (sorry...). So here are some thoughts generally related to how we "see" things and why shaking up that view can be good for head and heart.
Shortly after our new windows were installed, we had a quick and highly satisfying visit from my sister and her husband, her son, daughter in law and their young family in tow. I was scrambling around to find toys for the little ones - our stash is fairly scanty- but I happened upon a bonanza in the garage when I discovered a box of transformers collected long ago by my son, and a group of WWF action figures, as both my kids were quite the wrestling fans when they were young...go figure. ( In fact the wrestling action figures now include at least one former governor of a midwestern state - but that's a story for another time). So I gave myself a mental high five as I set about washing them all in warm soapy water and happily anticipated the yelps of pleasure from my little grand nephew when he came through the back gate to see them proudly arrayed out on the deck.
Our guests arrived while daylight was just beginning to wane and as I led them from the driveway through the gate, my grand nephew raced ahead. As he got into the yard, he gazed up at our trees, then down at the ground, and let out a an excited holler. "Wow" he shouted gleefully to his grandparents and his big sister. "Look at all these acorns!" He immediately sank to his knees, loaded up a yellow plastic truck he had brought with him, and spent the next few days loading and transporting his precious cargo from one site to another. In fact he asked for a small sack in which to transport some of his acorn booty back to his Lousianna home - we were only too happy to oblige. Watching him play so imaginatively with his acorn stash was such a powerful reminder of the value of having "fresh eyes". What we had construed as a nuisance was absolutely magical to this young boy, and the avalanche of acorns dropping daily was proof to him of a generous and abundant universe. I must confess that since his visit the pinging of acorns on the roof and the patio table has a much more joyful quality and my backyard sweeps of our bumper crop of acorns have triggered smiles as I marvel at the volume of them. Seen through a child's eye, the acorns are an ongoing celebration, one I hope I can continue to "see".
The day after Thanksgiving offered another chance to see something familiar in a novel and riveting way. I live near the Live Oaks Friends Meeting House and their gathering place boasts a "Skyspace" designed by artist James Turrell. They open the space each Friday about an hour before sunset and invite the community in to view sunset through what is essentially a large cutout in the roof, which rolls open so that you are gazing directly at the sky. As I sat in the pew looking up, at first I was not sure if I was viewing the sky or light reflected from a skylight. A flock of migrating birds, then a passing airplane quickly oriented me to the reality that I was watching a "slice of sky". And what proceeded to happen in that space in the next hour is really impossible to capture in language. Much of the time, the light appeared gauzy, with tiny wisps of peach, pink, and then deepening shades wafting by. While the picture appeared unchanging to a casual glance, fixed attention to that sliver of sky revealed huge shifts from moment to moment. But the real action began shortly after sunset. Our sliver began to shift through a spectrum of shades that I have never before witnessed. From a gray blue to an incredibly celestial blue then to almost an electric blue, segueing then into an intense midnight bluish purple, before doing a slow fade into a blue black. As the colors faded, the stars began to pop into view - much like diamonds suddenly dumped out onto black velvet. The only sounds in the meeting house were people breathing and occasionally murmuring to themselves. At one point my eyes stung and filled - both from the intensity of the looking and the heart bursting wonder of "seeing" something available everyday - as I had never seen it before. Let me just say this, the thankfulness I felt the day before increased exponentially with each minute I remained seated. As an opportunity to be present and grateful, I highly recommend it.
And in this profoundly lovely and slowed down time of year - here's to "seeing" with more than just our eyes.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
dancing with the stars
So I took my husband to the country for the weekend recently. It was his birthday and he decided that getting away would be a true gift as he has been crazy busy over the past eight or so months. He runs a non-profit and is the kind of person who loves what he does and he does it wholeheartedly many hours every day. Sometimes he's even doing it at 3 am when I find him in front of the computer editing a report or answering emails. If he is particularly vexed about some work related dilemma, he heads then to his music room, slaps on his earphones and works it out on his bass guitar. And even after a night like that, he is usually pretty good humored in the morning. In fact sometimes I, myself, cannot even believe some of the lines he comes up with when I get up. Like this little exchange from last week:
Me: ( mumbling sleepily as I round the corner in my comfortably shapeless Kelly green robe and bed head hair) Morning, how are you?
Him: ( cheeky and grinning) Oh I am so lucky!
Me: Really....why?
Him: Because I am always the first person who gets to see your beautiful face in the morning.
Now, really...how in hell can you not melt at something as sweetly goofy as that? (And want to give him a good present, of course.)
So we headed north to a resort that is mostly rustic with a few special touches thrown in. Like a horse drawn carriage that picks you up in the morning to trot you about 100 ft to the restaurant serving breakfast, and yummy homemade muffins in the main building that are complimentary and restocked often. The cabins have gas log fireplaces and sit above the lakes that dot the property. They all feature porch swings and a sense of privacy that is heightened by the canopy of trees that surrounds and separates them. No television, no internet, or phone. Just you, the sounds of the woods and the wildlife, and beyond that the kind of quiet that slowly begins to permeate and then starts to relax those shoulders that get locked up around your ears in the din of daily life in the city. The kind of quiet that makes you just want to sit silently, shoulder to shoulder on that porch swing and watch the fishes darting below in the lake...until you notice the two alligators making their way, ever so slowly, to shore. Hmmmmm... But after a glass or two of the nice Malbec that you packed, they seem like genuinely friendly and laid back alligators. And really, all those steps would be a challenge to negotiate when you walk on your belly...wouldn't they?
Luckily for us, it turned into a crystal clear and chilly night - the kind where the outside fire pits that ring the cabins were snapping and crackling and scenting the air with the smells of autumn. We decided to stroll the grounds and bundled up for our little hike. When we had passed by the lights of the cabins, the night was inky black - until we looked up. And there - in eye popping splendor - was the night sky plastered in the kind of brilliance that makes city people gasp and remember what they are missing. So many stars: some blazing, some twinkling, some clustered in patches so thick that they bled into one another. Constellations and planets and galaxies, all resembling some cosmic nightclub where the old favorites put in an appearance and bring the house down. As little as I know about astronomy and the heavens, I know this. There is nothing that feeds the spirit like a few hours spent under a clear and quiet country sky. For those of us who live suffused in light, time spent taking a twirl or two in the deep and clear dark of a starry night can drain away some of the lingering buzz of all that is so relentlessly yet artificially bright.
We returned to the cabin, pleasantly chilled, and star-sated. Just for fun, we left the fireplace on as the sounds of the north wind whipping the branches just outside nudged us towards sleep.
That was our weekend. Dancing with the stars -- country style.
Me: ( mumbling sleepily as I round the corner in my comfortably shapeless Kelly green robe and bed head hair) Morning, how are you?
Him: ( cheeky and grinning) Oh I am so lucky!
Me: Really....why?
Him: Because I am always the first person who gets to see your beautiful face in the morning.
Now, really...how in hell can you not melt at something as sweetly goofy as that? (And want to give him a good present, of course.)
So we headed north to a resort that is mostly rustic with a few special touches thrown in. Like a horse drawn carriage that picks you up in the morning to trot you about 100 ft to the restaurant serving breakfast, and yummy homemade muffins in the main building that are complimentary and restocked often. The cabins have gas log fireplaces and sit above the lakes that dot the property. They all feature porch swings and a sense of privacy that is heightened by the canopy of trees that surrounds and separates them. No television, no internet, or phone. Just you, the sounds of the woods and the wildlife, and beyond that the kind of quiet that slowly begins to permeate and then starts to relax those shoulders that get locked up around your ears in the din of daily life in the city. The kind of quiet that makes you just want to sit silently, shoulder to shoulder on that porch swing and watch the fishes darting below in the lake...until you notice the two alligators making their way, ever so slowly, to shore. Hmmmmm... But after a glass or two of the nice Malbec that you packed, they seem like genuinely friendly and laid back alligators. And really, all those steps would be a challenge to negotiate when you walk on your belly...wouldn't they?
Luckily for us, it turned into a crystal clear and chilly night - the kind where the outside fire pits that ring the cabins were snapping and crackling and scenting the air with the smells of autumn. We decided to stroll the grounds and bundled up for our little hike. When we had passed by the lights of the cabins, the night was inky black - until we looked up. And there - in eye popping splendor - was the night sky plastered in the kind of brilliance that makes city people gasp and remember what they are missing. So many stars: some blazing, some twinkling, some clustered in patches so thick that they bled into one another. Constellations and planets and galaxies, all resembling some cosmic nightclub where the old favorites put in an appearance and bring the house down. As little as I know about astronomy and the heavens, I know this. There is nothing that feeds the spirit like a few hours spent under a clear and quiet country sky. For those of us who live suffused in light, time spent taking a twirl or two in the deep and clear dark of a starry night can drain away some of the lingering buzz of all that is so relentlessly yet artificially bright.
We returned to the cabin, pleasantly chilled, and star-sated. Just for fun, we left the fireplace on as the sounds of the north wind whipping the branches just outside nudged us towards sleep.
That was our weekend. Dancing with the stars -- country style.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
one toe in the water
Does the world really need yet ANOTHER blog?
That's a question I've been wrestling with since my daughter helped me to set up this little space a few months back. And btw, yes, I am hopelessly non-technical and about as far from being cool, (read young,
savvy, and trendy) as one could be. My answer to the blog question is "Hell, no!" Yet I cannot deny a lifelong and passionate need for conversation, dialogue, and the urge to engage. Couple that with an unrelenting need to hear, tell, and share stories...well, you get the picture...
So... at the suggestion of my lovely and smart friend, Quealy, I am posting the following essay that I wrote in a recent workshop on the personal essay. Enjoy. And if you are so moved, feel free to share your comments, experiences, or whatever else you deem worthy of sharing. And if you have been led to believe that life's second acts cannot be as thrilling as the first, read on....
Off My Rocker
Dinner was served, the last bits of crème brulee scraped from my bone china bowls when one of those conversations, born of late nights, waning candles, and multiple glasses of wine, unfolded. The subject was regrets, and the responses as individual as our guests. An accountant friend trapped in a windowless office who pines for the fresh air and freedom of the forest ranger, and the physician’s assistant who never quite scratched that itch to apply to medical school and have the autonomy she craves. There was a friend who long pondered parenthood but could not take the plunge, and my spouse, happily scoring game winning field goals in the NFL, if only that call had come. When my turn came to declare my heart’s unfulfilled desire, I did a quick mental inventory. A poet laureate whose words captured the weight and dignity of ordinary people’s lives or maybe a teacher changing the trajectory of a child’s life? But the true answer surfaced with both astonishing speed and a wash of color warming my cheeks. I would have been a rockstar!
Hardly the vocational choice one might expect from a woman firmly in the territory of late middle-age, right? But there is a bit of a precedent here, dating back to when that ambition was less jarring. The year after we graduated high school, in search of a place to exercise our independence (also known as excessive drinking and indiscriminate partying) seven friends and I rented a summer weekend cottage on Cape Cod. The small weathered house sat amidst scrubby pines, with a sparse lawn mostly overtaken by sand. It was divided into four small rooms, two of which contained twin beds. This body –to- bed deficit ensured a mad scramble for at least a portion of a mattress on every evening we were present. The only other place to crash was a tired looking plaid couch, whose springs had long ago relinquished any vestige of springiness.
Each Friday night when we hitchhiked from sultry Boston to the salty tang of the Cape, the smells of the house, locked up tight all week, archived the previous weekend’s stay. Hazy notes of smoke and the stale odors of fast food and beer had worked their way permanently into furniture and carpets. All played against the dominant note of mildew that thrives in seaside cabins. The acoustical backdrop of the summer emanated from a stereo system, cobbled together with someone’s turntable, another girl’s tuner, and orphaned speakers donated by assorted male admirers. The thumping bass line of Under my Thumb, the long, riff filled version of C’mon Baby Light My Fire, and the get-up-on-your-feet-and-dance soul anthem I Heard it Through the Grapevine were the vehicles we rode from our work week personas to women in search of a good time.
In my case, that good time materialized in the form of three guys in search of a girl – and particularly a “chick who can sing”. One late Saturday night at our place, John, a chubby and prematurely balding lead guitar, showed up and proceeded to play. Fueled by both excitement at having live music and a number of Singapore Slings, I volunteered to sing and belted out Janis Joplin’s Me and Booby McGee. At the tender age of eighteen with long, curly hair, a deep tan, the ability to carry a tune and enough alcohol to disinhibit my extreme self-consciousness, I was, at least in John’s view, a real “find”. I was quickly drafted to rehearse with his trio in hopes of getting a gig at one of the Cape’s numerous grungy nightclubs. I approached our first practice with anticipation dueling with dread, partially mitigated by the proffered glass of wine upon my arrival. John had apparently alerted his band mates to the need to ‘loosen me up’ before singing. I met Tony, the curly haired and dark eyed Italian drummer, who appeared alarmingly hyper, and Steve, the blond, blue-eyed and seemingly soulful bass player, who turned out to be a philosophy major from my university. Tony and John were diehard Beatles fans and obsessed with songs from Abbey Road. So we spent many long hours mastering tunes like Something in the Way She Moves, Polythene Pam and Here comes the Sun.
And in that space where we practiced, a cottage owned by John’s parents, I began to glimpse the kind of alchemy and intimacy that making music together bestows on people, who were, only recently, perfect strangers. John was the steady one, taking charge of practice and setting the pace. Tony was playful, given to tossing his curls around in manic drum solos, which I soon learned were partly related to the speed he ingested before practice. And Steve and I established a romantic relationship, much of it taking place after practice when we would stroll the beach and talk for hours, ending up with a steamy make out session. Privacy was woefully lacking in both of our living situations; in retrospect, maybe not such a bad thing.
But the genuine surprise was the depth of the bond the four of us developed that summer. We might arrive at practice sunburned and cranky, sometimes hung over, but when we started to play and sing, it was like completing an electrical circuit. Often we would lose all track of time as John struggled to perfect a riff, and I worked hard to tighten up my timing. It felt like we were zipped into a cocoon where only the four of us existed, and the enormous pleasure that came from getting a song to sound decent would spill over into whoops of triumph and bear hugs all around.
John had a friend who managed to get us an opening gig for a real band late in August and that evening was the culmination of our entire band summer. Nursing a bad case of nerves, I drank a couple of beers to take the edge off. When we stepped out from behind the mildewed curtain onto a tiny stage with very low light, the small audience, seeded with friends, was enthusiastic. I felt a surge of panic that receded the moment I opened my mouth and found my note. I was acutely aware of the receptivity in the faces that were only feet from mine and in this nondescript club, it felt like a conversation began that I had subconsciously longed to have. The thrill of performing for live bodies was intoxicating in quite a new way, and we were all sufficiently amped to continue practicing in hopes that other gigs would come. But things that happen in summer are as ephemeral and transient as the lightning bugs that dot the dark on balmy evenings and our little band did not reunite the next season or any thereafter.
Without the support of my band mates, singing was less a part of my life but whenever a guitar appeared, it still drew me like a magnet. On more than a few occasions I picked up an acoustic guitar and tried to decipher the mysteries of frets and chords, but I sorely lacked the coordination and discipline to master accompanying myself. While fine motor skills were never my forte, I had an almost savant like ability to memorize and mimic melodies, harmonies and lyrics, right down to the smallest inflections. Unlike visual artists who are trained to first master the rules in order to break them; my flirtation with music was gut level and emotional - hardly the stuff of which careers are made.
When some four years later I met the man who would become my husband, we promptly engaged in full disclosure regarding our musical pasts. Jose had also played in bands, he in Texas, during high school and college, and he trumped me by being paid in actual cash. We had each boogied to Houston’s Archie Bell and the Drells back when they recorded “Tighten Up” and that knowledge acted as a geographical bridge. Turned out he was a bass player – which had an amusing symmetry from my perspective. After marriage, graduate school, work, and then children took over our lives, outside of an occasional afternoon with the acoustic guitar, our musical flings were largely forgotten.
Until my husband’s fiftieth birthday party, that is. With a recently emptied nest, we decided to celebrate the event in grand style. Nodding to our new free agency status, I delegated to my guitar-loving little brother the task of selecting a shiny new instrument for Jose. The party was a smashing success, the seductive red guitar was “sweet” and the musical floodgates switched to the ON position. Additional guitars, amplifiers, sound systems and microphones began proliferating at an alarming rate in my son’s former bedroom. And since midlife bands don’t attract gorgeous young vocalists, I was pressed into service. At first the awkwardness of handling my thirty year old tambourine threatened to derail my long dormant aspirations, but gradually I began to enjoy our sessions with Jose, the lead guitar player (yet another Tony) and a drummer named Mark. When Jose proposed that my fiftieth include a gig at a local dive, at which I would get to sing a few songs, I showed up and plunged in. Our guests, ranging from seasoned rockers like ourselves down to little kids, tore up the dance floor and appeared to have an all around terrific time. Left that night with buzzing ears, and hopelessly sore feet from dancing in my heels, I was hooked once again.
One thing led to another and within months, I found myself en route to a large auditorium filled with hundreds of Jose’s coworkers for a midday gig. It was faculty convocation and the college administrators thought some classic rock would liven things up. In a stomach churning déjà vu experience, I was shot through with a mix of stage fright and excitement, which was producing heart zapping bursts of adrenaline. Luckily, our daughter Kate was our roadie/chauffeur and as I confided my growing angst, she took me firmly in hand. “Relax, Mom. Nobody really cares what you look like, how old you are or even how well you sing. If you just get up there and have fun, people will have a good time right along with you. So just sing your heart out.”
What a sage. Just as she predicted, when the music began, my nerves vanished and as we played, amazing things began to happen. People jumped to their feet, sang along and clapped and danced in the aisles. Jose, ever the impresario, had drafted folks to lob beach balls into the crowd and from the stage we laughed aloud as gray heads bobbed and arms stretched up to keep the striped balls moving across the hall. The hour and a half that had seemed so daunting earlier that day melted away all too swiftly and we were set to close with a slow song by Gwen Stefani, that demanded strong vocals. In practice I was hesitant to commit to singing it, knowing that if I blew it, this was not a crowd of strangers. But with a nod to Mark, who really loved the song, I took a deep breath and began.
I know I will never forget those three minutes for as long as I draw breath. Embracing Kate’s advice, I simply stood there and sang my heart out and in exchange I received little nuggets of pure joy. Moving through the audience afterwards, with people offering compliments, felt a bit surreal. But my blissful state was not about anyone’s reaction; rather it resulted from that loss of self that occurs when you give yourself over completely to something else. In losing my self-consciousness and laying aside the relentless activity of evaluation and comparison, I allowed myself the luxury of pure presence. It was like tumbling through a secret passageway into another place.
Almost without exception this has been our experience with every gig since that day. When you give yourself freely and fully to making music for people they respond in visceral ways. And the joy that we experience in our crazy little band is unique to each, yet shared by all. Just as it was back on Cape Cod, we sometimes grumble at practice, constrained by work, family pressures and job stress that can make getting together arduous. And just as in real life with wildly successful bands, there is always a certain amount of drama. People with enough ego to risk creating music together and then putting it out there for public consumption usually don’t lack strong opinions about what they do and don’t like. We have had our share of “artistic differences” and the sometimes bitchy behavior, reminiscent of about seventh grade, that the term implies.
Yet when we settle in and play, surprises abound. An improvised solo here, a quantum leap in a new song there; they lead once again to that place of pure and unexpected happiness. In the hours that we practice (often longer than planned, as a recent late night visit from a visibly amused police officer will attest) we shed family issues, physical problems and work together to produce something that satisfies us. For us children of the ‘50’s, making music in our fifties has been pure serendipity, a second chance to develop parts of ourselves necessarily submerged by early responsibilities.
We have now racked up a variety of gigs from campaign fund raisers to weddings to private parties. But in what has to be the sweetest of coincidences, we had an opportunity a while back to really step up our game. One of the guitarists who sometimes sits in to jam is a buddy of Archie Bell’s and casually mentioned that he had invited Archie to join us at an upcoming private party at a country club. We all exchanged skeptical glances, but allowed that this could be an interesting twist. When we arrived at the venue that night, to nobody’s surprise, there was no Archie Bell. But soon after we started, a portly figure in a blue polyester jump suit appeared. Instantly we broke into the Tighten Up and the looks of unfettered joy on the faces of my band mates mirrored my own as we chewed down on the fact that we were all about to play and sing with somebody who had topped the charts in our youth. Archie turned out to be an exceedingly generous and gracious guest star and as he and I harmonized on old standards like Broadway and Stand by Me, I turned to glance at my favorite bass player. It was a little bit like looking directly into the sun.
It took a while to come down after Archie. Yet it also helped me clarify that early fantasies of becoming a rock star were never totally about solo stardom for me. Rather, performing for others is really about camaraderie and communication. The non-verbal expressions we develop and share are a different and thrilling kind of language. As the vocalist, my challenge is using my voice, my body, and places deep in my soul to navigate some of the spaces between human hearts. Singing with the band, I can convey things that would be lost in translation on a page or even in spoken conversation. I never feel more vulnerable than when I sing – or more alive.
Every once in a while, Jose and I take stock, quizzing each other on whether it’s time to mothball our equipment or perhaps pass down his guitars to some of the talent now declaring itself in the next generation. Lugging heavy amps in the wee hours of the morning has increasingly less appeal. And then we remember how we feel after a practice or a gig – when we come home buzzing and wide awake and tuned into something vital that defies all rational description.. Not yet, we always conclude. That day will come, but not just yet.
And when I revisit my late night declaration, assuming far more talent than I ever actually had, I ask myself, “Do I really wish I had been a rock star?” Probably not. A long and satisfying marriage that includes a live in bass player, periods of soul feeding work, witnessing the surprises that unfold in the lives of adult children, my life is rich with near daily doses of small happinesses.
Yet, while driving down Montrose Boulevard on a recent sunny afternoon, I was seized once again with the ache of something still unrequited when the first notes of Layla caught my ear. Grabbing for the dial, I turned the volume up to levels associated with rebellious teens and felt my throat begin to constrict and my eyes film over as the song worked its way towards the soaring yet haunting piano solo, so familiar to all of us alive in that time. Flashbacks; joy, regret, a sweet longing and unnamed sorrow all converged in my chest as the song faded slowly into silence. I was both euphoric and spent.
What still happens for me in my lengthy and passionate affair with rock music and singing is hinted at in these lines from a poem by John Berryman, called Dream Song 14.
“After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn. “
Singing and playing…flashing and yearning.
Rock on.
That's a question I've been wrestling with since my daughter helped me to set up this little space a few months back. And btw, yes, I am hopelessly non-technical and about as far from being cool, (read young,
savvy, and trendy) as one could be. My answer to the blog question is "Hell, no!" Yet I cannot deny a lifelong and passionate need for conversation, dialogue, and the urge to engage. Couple that with an unrelenting need to hear, tell, and share stories...well, you get the picture...
So... at the suggestion of my lovely and smart friend, Quealy, I am posting the following essay that I wrote in a recent workshop on the personal essay. Enjoy. And if you are so moved, feel free to share your comments, experiences, or whatever else you deem worthy of sharing. And if you have been led to believe that life's second acts cannot be as thrilling as the first, read on....
Off My Rocker
Dinner was served, the last bits of crème brulee scraped from my bone china bowls when one of those conversations, born of late nights, waning candles, and multiple glasses of wine, unfolded. The subject was regrets, and the responses as individual as our guests. An accountant friend trapped in a windowless office who pines for the fresh air and freedom of the forest ranger, and the physician’s assistant who never quite scratched that itch to apply to medical school and have the autonomy she craves. There was a friend who long pondered parenthood but could not take the plunge, and my spouse, happily scoring game winning field goals in the NFL, if only that call had come. When my turn came to declare my heart’s unfulfilled desire, I did a quick mental inventory. A poet laureate whose words captured the weight and dignity of ordinary people’s lives or maybe a teacher changing the trajectory of a child’s life? But the true answer surfaced with both astonishing speed and a wash of color warming my cheeks. I would have been a rockstar!
Hardly the vocational choice one might expect from a woman firmly in the territory of late middle-age, right? But there is a bit of a precedent here, dating back to when that ambition was less jarring. The year after we graduated high school, in search of a place to exercise our independence (also known as excessive drinking and indiscriminate partying) seven friends and I rented a summer weekend cottage on Cape Cod. The small weathered house sat amidst scrubby pines, with a sparse lawn mostly overtaken by sand. It was divided into four small rooms, two of which contained twin beds. This body –to- bed deficit ensured a mad scramble for at least a portion of a mattress on every evening we were present. The only other place to crash was a tired looking plaid couch, whose springs had long ago relinquished any vestige of springiness.
Each Friday night when we hitchhiked from sultry Boston to the salty tang of the Cape, the smells of the house, locked up tight all week, archived the previous weekend’s stay. Hazy notes of smoke and the stale odors of fast food and beer had worked their way permanently into furniture and carpets. All played against the dominant note of mildew that thrives in seaside cabins. The acoustical backdrop of the summer emanated from a stereo system, cobbled together with someone’s turntable, another girl’s tuner, and orphaned speakers donated by assorted male admirers. The thumping bass line of Under my Thumb, the long, riff filled version of C’mon Baby Light My Fire, and the get-up-on-your-feet-and-dance soul anthem I Heard it Through the Grapevine were the vehicles we rode from our work week personas to women in search of a good time.
In my case, that good time materialized in the form of three guys in search of a girl – and particularly a “chick who can sing”. One late Saturday night at our place, John, a chubby and prematurely balding lead guitar, showed up and proceeded to play. Fueled by both excitement at having live music and a number of Singapore Slings, I volunteered to sing and belted out Janis Joplin’s Me and Booby McGee. At the tender age of eighteen with long, curly hair, a deep tan, the ability to carry a tune and enough alcohol to disinhibit my extreme self-consciousness, I was, at least in John’s view, a real “find”. I was quickly drafted to rehearse with his trio in hopes of getting a gig at one of the Cape’s numerous grungy nightclubs. I approached our first practice with anticipation dueling with dread, partially mitigated by the proffered glass of wine upon my arrival. John had apparently alerted his band mates to the need to ‘loosen me up’ before singing. I met Tony, the curly haired and dark eyed Italian drummer, who appeared alarmingly hyper, and Steve, the blond, blue-eyed and seemingly soulful bass player, who turned out to be a philosophy major from my university. Tony and John were diehard Beatles fans and obsessed with songs from Abbey Road. So we spent many long hours mastering tunes like Something in the Way She Moves, Polythene Pam and Here comes the Sun.
And in that space where we practiced, a cottage owned by John’s parents, I began to glimpse the kind of alchemy and intimacy that making music together bestows on people, who were, only recently, perfect strangers. John was the steady one, taking charge of practice and setting the pace. Tony was playful, given to tossing his curls around in manic drum solos, which I soon learned were partly related to the speed he ingested before practice. And Steve and I established a romantic relationship, much of it taking place after practice when we would stroll the beach and talk for hours, ending up with a steamy make out session. Privacy was woefully lacking in both of our living situations; in retrospect, maybe not such a bad thing.
But the genuine surprise was the depth of the bond the four of us developed that summer. We might arrive at practice sunburned and cranky, sometimes hung over, but when we started to play and sing, it was like completing an electrical circuit. Often we would lose all track of time as John struggled to perfect a riff, and I worked hard to tighten up my timing. It felt like we were zipped into a cocoon where only the four of us existed, and the enormous pleasure that came from getting a song to sound decent would spill over into whoops of triumph and bear hugs all around.
John had a friend who managed to get us an opening gig for a real band late in August and that evening was the culmination of our entire band summer. Nursing a bad case of nerves, I drank a couple of beers to take the edge off. When we stepped out from behind the mildewed curtain onto a tiny stage with very low light, the small audience, seeded with friends, was enthusiastic. I felt a surge of panic that receded the moment I opened my mouth and found my note. I was acutely aware of the receptivity in the faces that were only feet from mine and in this nondescript club, it felt like a conversation began that I had subconsciously longed to have. The thrill of performing for live bodies was intoxicating in quite a new way, and we were all sufficiently amped to continue practicing in hopes that other gigs would come. But things that happen in summer are as ephemeral and transient as the lightning bugs that dot the dark on balmy evenings and our little band did not reunite the next season or any thereafter.
Without the support of my band mates, singing was less a part of my life but whenever a guitar appeared, it still drew me like a magnet. On more than a few occasions I picked up an acoustic guitar and tried to decipher the mysteries of frets and chords, but I sorely lacked the coordination and discipline to master accompanying myself. While fine motor skills were never my forte, I had an almost savant like ability to memorize and mimic melodies, harmonies and lyrics, right down to the smallest inflections. Unlike visual artists who are trained to first master the rules in order to break them; my flirtation with music was gut level and emotional - hardly the stuff of which careers are made.
When some four years later I met the man who would become my husband, we promptly engaged in full disclosure regarding our musical pasts. Jose had also played in bands, he in Texas, during high school and college, and he trumped me by being paid in actual cash. We had each boogied to Houston’s Archie Bell and the Drells back when they recorded “Tighten Up” and that knowledge acted as a geographical bridge. Turned out he was a bass player – which had an amusing symmetry from my perspective. After marriage, graduate school, work, and then children took over our lives, outside of an occasional afternoon with the acoustic guitar, our musical flings were largely forgotten.
Until my husband’s fiftieth birthday party, that is. With a recently emptied nest, we decided to celebrate the event in grand style. Nodding to our new free agency status, I delegated to my guitar-loving little brother the task of selecting a shiny new instrument for Jose. The party was a smashing success, the seductive red guitar was “sweet” and the musical floodgates switched to the ON position. Additional guitars, amplifiers, sound systems and microphones began proliferating at an alarming rate in my son’s former bedroom. And since midlife bands don’t attract gorgeous young vocalists, I was pressed into service. At first the awkwardness of handling my thirty year old tambourine threatened to derail my long dormant aspirations, but gradually I began to enjoy our sessions with Jose, the lead guitar player (yet another Tony) and a drummer named Mark. When Jose proposed that my fiftieth include a gig at a local dive, at which I would get to sing a few songs, I showed up and plunged in. Our guests, ranging from seasoned rockers like ourselves down to little kids, tore up the dance floor and appeared to have an all around terrific time. Left that night with buzzing ears, and hopelessly sore feet from dancing in my heels, I was hooked once again.
One thing led to another and within months, I found myself en route to a large auditorium filled with hundreds of Jose’s coworkers for a midday gig. It was faculty convocation and the college administrators thought some classic rock would liven things up. In a stomach churning déjà vu experience, I was shot through with a mix of stage fright and excitement, which was producing heart zapping bursts of adrenaline. Luckily, our daughter Kate was our roadie/chauffeur and as I confided my growing angst, she took me firmly in hand. “Relax, Mom. Nobody really cares what you look like, how old you are or even how well you sing. If you just get up there and have fun, people will have a good time right along with you. So just sing your heart out.”
What a sage. Just as she predicted, when the music began, my nerves vanished and as we played, amazing things began to happen. People jumped to their feet, sang along and clapped and danced in the aisles. Jose, ever the impresario, had drafted folks to lob beach balls into the crowd and from the stage we laughed aloud as gray heads bobbed and arms stretched up to keep the striped balls moving across the hall. The hour and a half that had seemed so daunting earlier that day melted away all too swiftly and we were set to close with a slow song by Gwen Stefani, that demanded strong vocals. In practice I was hesitant to commit to singing it, knowing that if I blew it, this was not a crowd of strangers. But with a nod to Mark, who really loved the song, I took a deep breath and began.
I know I will never forget those three minutes for as long as I draw breath. Embracing Kate’s advice, I simply stood there and sang my heart out and in exchange I received little nuggets of pure joy. Moving through the audience afterwards, with people offering compliments, felt a bit surreal. But my blissful state was not about anyone’s reaction; rather it resulted from that loss of self that occurs when you give yourself over completely to something else. In losing my self-consciousness and laying aside the relentless activity of evaluation and comparison, I allowed myself the luxury of pure presence. It was like tumbling through a secret passageway into another place.
Almost without exception this has been our experience with every gig since that day. When you give yourself freely and fully to making music for people they respond in visceral ways. And the joy that we experience in our crazy little band is unique to each, yet shared by all. Just as it was back on Cape Cod, we sometimes grumble at practice, constrained by work, family pressures and job stress that can make getting together arduous. And just as in real life with wildly successful bands, there is always a certain amount of drama. People with enough ego to risk creating music together and then putting it out there for public consumption usually don’t lack strong opinions about what they do and don’t like. We have had our share of “artistic differences” and the sometimes bitchy behavior, reminiscent of about seventh grade, that the term implies.
Yet when we settle in and play, surprises abound. An improvised solo here, a quantum leap in a new song there; they lead once again to that place of pure and unexpected happiness. In the hours that we practice (often longer than planned, as a recent late night visit from a visibly amused police officer will attest) we shed family issues, physical problems and work together to produce something that satisfies us. For us children of the ‘50’s, making music in our fifties has been pure serendipity, a second chance to develop parts of ourselves necessarily submerged by early responsibilities.
We have now racked up a variety of gigs from campaign fund raisers to weddings to private parties. But in what has to be the sweetest of coincidences, we had an opportunity a while back to really step up our game. One of the guitarists who sometimes sits in to jam is a buddy of Archie Bell’s and casually mentioned that he had invited Archie to join us at an upcoming private party at a country club. We all exchanged skeptical glances, but allowed that this could be an interesting twist. When we arrived at the venue that night, to nobody’s surprise, there was no Archie Bell. But soon after we started, a portly figure in a blue polyester jump suit appeared. Instantly we broke into the Tighten Up and the looks of unfettered joy on the faces of my band mates mirrored my own as we chewed down on the fact that we were all about to play and sing with somebody who had topped the charts in our youth. Archie turned out to be an exceedingly generous and gracious guest star and as he and I harmonized on old standards like Broadway and Stand by Me, I turned to glance at my favorite bass player. It was a little bit like looking directly into the sun.
It took a while to come down after Archie. Yet it also helped me clarify that early fantasies of becoming a rock star were never totally about solo stardom for me. Rather, performing for others is really about camaraderie and communication. The non-verbal expressions we develop and share are a different and thrilling kind of language. As the vocalist, my challenge is using my voice, my body, and places deep in my soul to navigate some of the spaces between human hearts. Singing with the band, I can convey things that would be lost in translation on a page or even in spoken conversation. I never feel more vulnerable than when I sing – or more alive.
Every once in a while, Jose and I take stock, quizzing each other on whether it’s time to mothball our equipment or perhaps pass down his guitars to some of the talent now declaring itself in the next generation. Lugging heavy amps in the wee hours of the morning has increasingly less appeal. And then we remember how we feel after a practice or a gig – when we come home buzzing and wide awake and tuned into something vital that defies all rational description.. Not yet, we always conclude. That day will come, but not just yet.
And when I revisit my late night declaration, assuming far more talent than I ever actually had, I ask myself, “Do I really wish I had been a rock star?” Probably not. A long and satisfying marriage that includes a live in bass player, periods of soul feeding work, witnessing the surprises that unfold in the lives of adult children, my life is rich with near daily doses of small happinesses.
Yet, while driving down Montrose Boulevard on a recent sunny afternoon, I was seized once again with the ache of something still unrequited when the first notes of Layla caught my ear. Grabbing for the dial, I turned the volume up to levels associated with rebellious teens and felt my throat begin to constrict and my eyes film over as the song worked its way towards the soaring yet haunting piano solo, so familiar to all of us alive in that time. Flashbacks; joy, regret, a sweet longing and unnamed sorrow all converged in my chest as the song faded slowly into silence. I was both euphoric and spent.
What still happens for me in my lengthy and passionate affair with rock music and singing is hinted at in these lines from a poem by John Berryman, called Dream Song 14.
“After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn. “
Singing and playing…flashing and yearning.
Rock on.
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