Sign of the Times

Sometimes, simply walking out the front door can be overwhelming.

Say, like, on day #66 of Shelter in Place which also happens to be day #TooMany of a godforsaken migraine that has had me hiding in a darkened room like a gothy troll.

As in: today.  I haven't been outside in two days because sunlight has been so hard to take.  But the love of my life has been pouring himself into our garden these days and I wanted to support him, so I ventured out cautiously to see his handiwork.  I was not prepared for the many ways in which the world would bombard me.

First, it was just too bright out there, and all that glorious light hurt my head and eyes. While I expected the pain, I did not expect the anger -- which I definitely felt, sharp and sudden.  I was instantly furious because I love the outdoors and do not like it causing me pain and discomfort.  So there I was, walking down my front path with a little bit of rage.

Second, Rick has done so much work! Seeing our beautiful garden emerge – RE-emerge – is impressive and gratitude-inducing and wonderful.  It made me so happy.  A few more steps down the walk, and rage and joy were hand in hand.

Third, the air outside smelled so sweet and fresh it made me want to weep.  It reminded me that Coronavirus sucks, that migraines sucks, and that both are conspiring to trick me into not realizing that the world keeps turning and the season of renewal is here.  The beautiful earth keeps doing her thing, and when virtually everything else seems to be completely falling apart, the glory of Springtime is profound and also, the best news ever.  Spring felt so good on my skin and all around me, and now, on my walk down the sidewalk, I felt a little melty.

And fourth: that sign. That "Proud Home of a 2020 Graduate" sign we put up the other day.  I can't even with that sign.  I have all the feels about that sign.  Rick put it up in the front yard for us, and I feel love and pride and joy that I have this small gesture to offer for my daughter, and at the same time, I feel a little crazy from the frustration, and yes, a little more rage at the helplessness of missing the rituals of graduation and celebration.  Rituals matter.  They mark time for us, they shine a spotlight on people.  I want that for Lola.  She deserves it.

She doesn't deserve it more than anyone else: she deserves it because everyone does and every single life needs its moments to be honored.  So, she won't get this one, at least not in the way any of us expected.  Next week, we will take her, decked out in cap and gown, to campus to walk through an empty gym and be filmed receiving her diploma.  The school is producing a graduation video and streaming it on the original graduation day; we will watch from home.  She won't get her Senior Prom, senior ditch day, last day of school, Baccalaureate Mass, or Graduation Ceremony.  She'll have other rituals in her life, and I know, in the long run, she will be fine.  So why am I swinging back and forth so hard between "whatever, graduations are long and boring, usually too hot, with too many speeches, and like two seconds where you get to hear your graduate's name" and "give me my moment in the sun to reflect on 18 years of love and support and hope and aspiration and becoming and beauty and joy, and give it to me in public with balloons and flowers and other people telling her how special she is!"

I can't decide where to land.

Not that it matters where I land, since I have no say in the matter.  It's just that I'm keenly aware that my mind and heart are all over the map these days.  I'm high in the treetops of love and gratitude for my family and knowing that having them safe and whole is having absolutely everything, and simultaneously way down low in the swamp of rage and helplessness from not being in control of what's happening and wanting so badly for so many things to be different.

So this is what I realized when I walked out the front door today: I'm walking with love and joy, rage and fear, gratitude and frustration. Maybe tomorrow, if I'm brave enough, I'll venture farther than the sidewalk and learn even more about how overwhelming the world can be. 

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Music Love

what should I name her?

Music is a fascinating teacher.

The more I play this fiddle, and the more music I listen to, the more fascinated I become.  Today, as I was listening to music while riding my exercise bike, I felt like I was falling into a little musical portal. I was so captivated by sound, it felt like catching a glimpse of what improvisation or composing might be like, what understanding the language of music must be like.

It amazes me that a musician knows exactly what sound she will hear if she plays a specific note.  And not as in, that right there is B flat, so I will hear a B flat.  As in, she knows the sound, can hear it in her head, before she plays it.  Maybe I'll get there someday.

Also on my mind lately?  The fact that scales are miraculous. A scale is like an autopilot coach for my fingers: do enough of them, and my fingers seem to start doing them perfectly on their own.  I am in love with music.  Playing it, listening to it, thinking about it, having it in the world.

For most of the past year, I've rewarded myself for time on the exercise bike with binge-worthy television.  It makes sense -- there's so much to do around here that there are very few, if any, other ways to justify too many hours of Grey's Anatomy.  And since I tend naturally toward sloth-dom and away from sweat equity, I typically have to force myself through a workout.  Often, I can barely make it from minute to excruciating minute.  Being convinced I've ridden for well over 10 minutes only to discover it's been more like a minute and 34 seconds is BRUTAL.  TV helps numb me through the whole healthy business.

But these days, I am having severe eye sensitivity problems, particularly with screens, and since I have to use a laptop for work, it's imperative that I avoid screens as much as possible all other times.

A happy fact, as it turns out!  Instead of mind-numbing TV, music carried me through a vigorous 45-minute ride today and it was glorious.  And yes, I realize most of the fitness-crazed world is totally on to this strategy, it's just one I deliberately have eschewed so that I could watch bad TV without guilt. Oh, but the music this morning! It was so joyful and energizing that I feel I must share my playlist with you.  Here it is, in all its eclectic weirdness, annotated because this is my blog:

• Bottomless Lake, by John Prine – started with this one because I am trying to learn it on the fiddle so that I can play it on our family zoom calls with my dad on banjo, my brother on guitar, and my sister, her family, and my aunt (plus anyone in my own house who I can wrangle) on vocals.  Pretty sure I won't wrangle anyone in my house.  It will still be epic. Just the attempt will be epic.
• Seven Nation Army, by The White Stripes – because this song is on my daughter Tallulah's Pump Up Playlist for her soccer games, and she really misses her soccer games these days, so listening to it this morning was an homage to what she and we are missing.

FOUR selections from Rhiannon Ghiddons because she is just that damn good. So good. Achingly good. Treat yourself:

• At the Purchaser's Option – heartbreaking.
• Don't Let It Trouble Your Mind – freeing.
• Shake Sugaree – delightful.
• Up Above My Head – envigorating.

• Everything is Broken, by Bob Dylan – not once, not twice, but THREE times because (a) that song is perfection; (b) that song is too short; and (c) it's almost his birthday and I'm gearing up to celebrate. Also, that song reminds me of my house and family and lets me know I'm not alone.
• Come Together, by The Beatles – because most playlists in the world are made better with a Beatles song and also because a delightful rendition on Facebook brought this song back to me this week and I found myself craving the original.
• Finally, I cooled down with another John Prine, which, frankly, was kind of a downer ending, but there is a line in this beautiful song that I stole and used in my last blog post, so it's been top of mind lately.  No one turns a phrase like Mr. Prine.  

Thank you, quirky playlist, for morning joy and exercise. Music and language all mixed up together: there is no more powerful force.


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Why are you still here?  Go listen to something!  She's a good teacher, but an even better companion.

We Left Resentment At the Lake

Yesterday, Tallulah and I went for a walk around Lake Merritt. We left at 8am, which apparently is excruciatingly early for a 13-year old person. The day before, she asked me if we could go for a hike. This being remarkable on many levels – not least of which the fact that she can barely tolerate my presence these days – I decided it had to happen. Then, by the time it did, she was just not that into me anymore. Ah, the difference a few short hours can make in the mother-daughter relationship.

I had to coax her with avocado toast and throw in a stop for hot chocolate just to get her out of bed. And before she would peel back the covers, she wanted to know where we were going. I guess she had to weigh the destination against her comfy pillow and warm blankets.  I had been researching places we could go that I wasn't already tired of and that were still open during SIP -- most of the places I thought of were closed.  Then I thought of Lake Merritt, which I've loved on my walks with Susan and would be new to Tallulah.

Perfect! I thought.  Meh, was Tallulah's general response.  Even still, with enough cajoling in the form of avocado, I got her in the car and off we went.

With. No. Aux. Cord. THE HORROR.

She wasn't interested in (a) NPR, (b) the radio or (c) the lone Scottish fiddle CD that's been in my player since fiddle camp last June.  We opted for silence.  Combine a reluctant teenager with an early-for-her morning and no acceptable music, and you get a very quiet car ride.

In my head: Mom's just over her behind the wheel thinking "It's OK...it's time together...it'so OK...it's time together..." and trying hard not to fill the silence just to make herself feel better.

The few sentences Tallulah did speak were on the order of "What is this place, anyway?" and "Are we stopping for hot chocolate first?" and "I said I wanted to go for a HIKE not a WALK."

With such enthusiasm, the morning was bound to be joyful!  Yeah, not so much.  Our walk consisted of me walking slightly slower than I wanted to and still staying two paces ahead of her – probably because she preferred it that way – and me biting my lip when I wanted to point out something pretty or interesting.

I couldn't help myself, after too many steps taken in silence, from pointing out a large collection of ducks and geese, one of which was drinking water.  Drinking water is a laborious process for long-necked waterfowl, as they take a drink and then have to raise their heads up high to let the water shimmy down their throats, gulping several times for what seems like a pretty small amount of water. I called this to Tallulah's attention, but alas, I misspoke:

Me: "Look at that duck drinking water: it's so much work for him!"

Daughter disdain dripping: "That's not a duck."

"Right. Goose. Look at the goose. My apologies."

More silent walking.

Families walked by chatting.  Friends walked by deep in conversation. Couples walked by engrossed in each other.  Joggers ran by all healthy and purposeful.  We plodded on in silence, mom in front, daughter two steps behind.

Around a bend, we encountered a flock of geese, easily twenty or thirty of them.

Me, playfully: "Look at all those ducks!"

Her: Icy stare.

More plodding.

Her, annoyed: "It's so hot out here!  Why did you make me bring a sweatshirt???"

More plodding.

Her, annoyed: "Are we going all the way around this WHOLE lake?"

Me: "Hell no, I've got better things to do than take a morning stroll with resentment."

I'm 99% sure I didn't say this out loud, instead beginning my answer with:

"We can turn right up there and go back along Grand Avenue instead of going all the way around.  I'm sure we'll pass a coffee shop along there too."

So we did.  We cut short the walk, which was only about 40 minutes long at that point, found a cafe and got her a drink.  She opted for raspberry lemonade, what with it being sweltering and all.

While we waited for her drink, I noticed we were right across the street from Children's Fairyland.  This spot is near and dear to my heart, from the countless trips Rick and I made here with our children in the early days of our parenting.  Later, the kids' Kindergarten class made an annual field trip here too, which we chaperoned whenever we could.  So many happy memories.

For some of us at least.  I was jolted out of my nostalgic haze by Tallulah:

"What's Children's Fairyland?"

How was this possible?  How could she not know Fairyland?  Where had we gone wrong that this special place was not firmly fixed in her memory?  Incredulity...shame...parental regret...wondering if her gangly arms and legs would fit inside Mother Hubbard's shoe if we tried to make up for lost time and brought her here now: many things went through my head.  It was so striking to me, I texted Rick.  And then I sat on Grand Avenue, waiting for T's lemonade, soaking up the sun and feeling disappointed in our sad, plodding little walk and in myself for failing to be the same parent for #5 as I had been for #1 and #2 and probably even #3 and maybe even some for #4.  Time goes too damn fast and I don't know how it slipped away from me.

We picked up her drink, and walked on.  The skip in her step returned only when we could see the car, and her escape from the entire tortuous morning seemed finally at hand.

But then on the drive home, lo and behold, the sun that had shone down on all those lake walkers finally emerged in my car.  She actually DID remember Children's Fairyland, Mother Hubbard's shoe specifically, which prompted her to remember other funny things about Kindergarten and childhood and pretty soon, stories were spilling out of her and she was chattering and giggling and lovely. My heart eased. I got the time back.  She even forgot how annoying I was, and did not recoil from the sound of my voice! Victory! Only 15 minutes in the car, but suddenly the sad, plodding little walk was golden and perfect.

And just like that, we left resentment at the lake.


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