Thoughts Left For You

It’s taken me over a week to go through all the posts and comments left here over these last years. In that time, I’ve had the opportunity to revisit many of your thoughts– my own thoughts. I’ve remembered how much this space has meant to me– how long I’ve known some of you. It isn’t an easy thing to bring it to a close.

In this week, I’ve decided to hold onto this space– for one never knows what tomorrow holds. I feel whisperings on the edges of my mind that someday I’ll want to return. I’ve removed all but 29 of the posts here. The posts that are left… they were as honest as I’m capable of being. So I left them here for you. Perhaps to read again. Perhaps as a way of saying, in these words, I can be found. To a few, I added author’s note. I felt they needed some explanation as to why they were left on this site. I hope you’ll take the time to flip back through what remains.

The posts that have been removed, haven’t been discarded. I’m sorting, editing, organizing them into something that makes sense. Something that might be worth reading again.

Some of you may disagree with my decision to remove these posts. But I have my reasons. Some of them are much too personal to leave out in the public indefinitely. Some of them, I need Google to forget. Like Perky Breasts Won’t Change Your Life. This post received 10,000 hits in the last year. Some of the Google terms that came across my stat list included, “little girls, perky tits”, “i’ve never had perky breasts”, “mom with perky tits”. I have to tell you– I find some of the things people search for a bit distressing and would rather them not be led to my blog.

Mostly, my friends, in the last years, the music of my life has sung quite the song. Two years ago this month I attended the funeral of a dear and beautiful woman– a funeral I’ve yet to shake off. I’ve had a new baby. I’ve watched a valuable friendship disintegrate under the weight of stubbornness, confusion and misplaced words. My heart is a bit sore and my spirit overcome. I need the notes of these things to settle. I need to let the vibrations of these last few years ring on for a bit in silence. And when that silence falls, I will move on to the next movement of my song.

Today is my birthday. I’m 38. I am in awe of the three little lives in my charge. I’ve lived a blessed life thus far and I’m not quite sure what I want the other half to look like– only that I long for peace and beauty and love… and some measure of hope. While this may not make sense to you all, perhaps it will to some. If I am to feel pain and sorrow, then it won’t be by my own hand. And if I am to love, then it will be without regard to the fall.

I have– quite clearly– come upon a fermata in my life. With that thought, my last thoughts to you will be from a post I made last year…

***

The Fermata Matters

August 13, 2010

All week I’ve been meaning to write… to share all the little things that have cropped up. Every time I sit down to do so, my words sound too personal (really)… boring even… as my life this week seems to offer little inspiration to anyone who might be looking on.

I’ll be honest in saying that I value writing to you– blogging– only when I feel that my experiences might somehow resonate with you. Those universal moments that can be turned to apply to all of our lives.

This week my life has seemed… mundane. Very simply mine.

There are single days in my life I could describe to you when I rise early, shower, dress, make a hot and hearty breakfast, teach a piano lesson or two, have coffee with my girlfriends, take the kids out on a mini-field trip, a board game or two in the afternoon, a bit of errand running, dinner on the table for 4 and then our evening activities.

I haven’t had a day like that this week.

I’ll confess that has been my entire week. That is the list of things I’ve managed to accomplish only once within these last 7 days (except the shower part… I have managed at least three of those). The rest of my hours? Sleeping. Or watching TV. And recovering from that nasty virus that knocked me out exactly 9 days ago now. Honestly? I’m pretty proud that the list is as long as it is.

The other thing I’ve done this week that will seem so small to you but has been so momentous to our family has been to get the kids going in football and cheerleading practice. This is a big time first for all of us. Doug played ice hockey, and I sang in the choir in school. Participating in schedules and rigor and excitement of the All-American autumn world of football and cheerleading is brand new to us.

Jackson has taken to football like he was made for it. He’s all boy, and I don’t think I have the vocabulary to describe how proud I am watching him in this world of manliness. Clare, on the other hand, is out of her comfort zone. She’s naturally an intellectual, naturally a solitary soul. Cheerleading is pushing her to her limits, and I am in awe of how she is changing, growing and facing her personal weaknesses.

I suppose this week I’ve been slowed to point of relishing single moments… of focusing in on the details. After all, I’m only experiencing one or two moments a day that do not include my pillows, blankets and the inside of my eyes.

Last night, I was curled up on the couch watching Where the Wild Things Arewith the kids when Jackson laid his head on my very round, pregnant belly. Seven months exactly. I happened to have my phone in my hand, and I snapped a picture of him. His arm laid loosely over me. His fascination at feeling the soft rumblings of his baby brother move made my world seem so sweet and simple.

I posted the picture to my Facebook account and when I got to looking at it, I realized it embodied the lesson I had inadvertently learned this week. A lesson, I think, we can all relate to… a mundane moment, yes. But more. It’s the pause. The space between our words. That frozen microsecond when the rope swings all the way out over the river. In this photo was one of my life’s many fermatas… hold onto this as long as you like, as long you can… until the last strains of it have faded into memory.

Do you know what I teach my music students about fermatas? Fermatas are small musical marks that give the musician permission to hold onto a note as long as he wants to… the note can fade into silence and the silence can sit there… waiting for the musician to throw himself into the next movement of the music. I instill in my students the value of the fermata. Take this moment, pause, let everything you’ve played up until this point sink in… and only when you are ready… only when the music that has preceded this moment has settled into your skin… only then should you move on.

The fermata… the well-executed pause in the midst of a concerto, the breath in the chaos of living… matters. It can turn an ordinary performance into a masterpiece. It can turn a spiraling, busy life into an experience worth remembering.

Goodbyes

My dear blogging friends,

Nearly three years ago I ventured into the world of blogging. I have to say it’s been a fun and enjoyable experience. As of late, I’ve begun to feel that my time with Transplanted is coming to a close. There are other writing endeavors that often are left to the wayside in favor of a post here– not to mention the demands of family life keep my mind overloaded most of the time.

I will be taking a few days to archive the many posts here– as quite often they were nothing more than journal entries of the day. After that, I’ll be closing the blog.

Perhaps we’ll run into each other in another blogosphere in the future– or if time is kind and dreams are strong, you might find a book tucked in the corner of some bookstore whose author you recognize.

Much love to you all… may life always be kind to you…

Christy

The Garden: An Anecdote

I went for a walk down a path not yet taken one afternoon in August. In time, I came upon a garden gate that curiosity couldn’t help but open. Once inside, I could see the garden rambled on for acres, dotted with fruit trees and long rolling spaces of rich green grass– the kind you’d lay upon to stare at the sky. In the center of the garden was a pond and on the edge of the pond, an old rotting dock jutted over the water.

Around the pond, flowers grew. Blue bearded Irises whose petals looked like fat blue feathers. Lilies the size of saucers in every color imaginable. Roses perched on the ends of thorny green stems. Flowers so lovely and strong and well-tended that one knew there must be a gardener. Indeed– he came sauntering from some hidden corner to greet me with a smile.

He led me to a mighty Oak that sat in the farthest corner. Without a question or a concern, he sat me down on the ground and began a conversation. From his pocket, he pulled a knife and soft piece of wood. As we talked, he whittled the wood into a child’s whistle. His hands were strong and sure– sinuous beauty on a delicate instrument. I watched them with fascination as we talked away the day.

Finally, he glanced at me and said without hesitation. “I will not pick you a fine bouquet.” I laughed and kissed his cheek (for he felt a familiar friend). “I have no need for your fine bouquets.” And I left him by his Oak.

The very next day, I took the same small path. When I arrived at the garden, the gate had been left open with a note that said, please come in. I walked across the grassy hill and down towards the pond. The fragrance of the flowers was heavy in the air. He met me by the lilies. He was tending the ground beneath. He said not a word, but shook the dirt from his hands and led me to the Oak.

We sat the same as the day before, gazing up at the summer sky. He spoke of the sky in such a way that I was arrested by his words. I listened to their sing-song chant and saw through his liturgy a whole new sky that I’d never seen before. It became not a sky but the blanket of God laid with celestial love over my own world.

Silence fell between us, and I rose to leave. He too stood over me and said with defiance, “I will not pick you a fine bouquet.” I winced a bit before smiling and brushed the back of his hand. “I have no need for your fine bouquets.”

On the third day, I came again to the garden gate. He waited there for me. We walked in comfortable quiet across the grassy hill, by the pond and through his flower garden. The scent of the flowers had grown stronger through the night. I couldn’t take in a breath that they hadn’t already claimed.

By the Oak we sat, my head on his shoulder. From his garden bag, he pulled out an old and faded book. He opened it and began to read. My heart broke in a dozen places. I asked him where he’d found the book. He brushed the hair from my face and said, “It’s just an old book of mine.” I touched the cover gently and said, “It is the same book I used to read every night when I was a child”.

The sky above turned dark as a summer storm began to roil. He stood abruptly, took his bag and turned to leave the Oak. He stopped for just a moment, tension in his bones. “I won’t pick you a fine bouquet.” I couldn’t help but close my eyes against the tears. “I have no need for your fine bouquet. I haven’t even a vase for flowers such as those.”

He stared. Then walked away.

On the fourth day, I came again to the garden. The gate swung open. The sky still grey. I could see across the stretch of land that he sat beneath the tree. I came to him and sat close enough to hear him breathe. He spoke not a word. At length he took my hand and stretched out my palm. He traced the lines on the inside of my hand with his fingers. Then he drew an invisible picture of his own.

I asked, What is it you’re drawing?

It’s you, he replied. When his gaze met mine, I saw myself in the reflection of his eyes.

The flowers suddenly sucked away all the air. The rainbow lilies and thorny roses and blue bearded iris possessed the whole of the garden. He stood and pulled me to my feet. He walked me back towards the gate.

“I cannot pick you a fine bouquet,” he said as if he were sorry.

A sadness so profound washed inside of me. I replied, “I have no need for your lilies or your roses or your irises. I haven’t a vase at all. I haven’t a desire for this smell on me.”

I glanced along the edges where the grasses were less trimmed. He had already begun to walk away. “But I would have loved one of the wild daisies that grow here along your fence. Why couldn’t you have thought to pick one to tuck behind my ear?”

I left the lovely garden. The gate swinging wide before coming to a close with a soft unquieted click.

***

I was advised recently to resist the urge to explain my music, my poetry and my metaphors. That the message of these is found most clearly in the receiver, not the giver. Excellent advice that I’ve come to mind more often. So I won’t explain this little parable in full… only to say that it’s a reflection on the ways we hurt each other in relationships. I have been both gardener and visitor at different times of my life. In this parable, both wound the other. We protect ourselves too fiercely from unseen threats… we assume too often that another knows what it is we need.

The Chapel

I arrive home at last
to the chapel tucked in the edges
of the seething wood.
The parishioners–
parsed pieces of the same willful soul–
have long abandoned their worship.

Twilight speaks softly
to the markers of the dead;
the steeple bell still, though
its rope rocks lazy in the wind.

Sigh and relief to
step inside– a release.
The stained glass shivers
in fading exultations.
The altar heaves
under the burden of confession.
The old floors groan
from the memory
of the pounding–
the Glory Hallelujah.

I shed my cloak
my garments of shame
for in this place–
and only in this place–
am I fully known.

I bow my head and
kneel in supplication.
Alone
save the ghosts
and the dust on the pews
and the snow outside
that floats
muffles
and chills
the heat
of my wicked blood.

Mercifully

silence has fallen.

 

Author’s Note (added 1/12/12): I love this poem. I left it here because to me it represents serenity. I will tell you that as I wrote the poem, the Chapel represents my own soul… perhaps you’ll read it again with a deeper understanding.

To my Maple Tree

I onced posted the following Facebook status: Going the wrong way on a one way street. The comment referred to a life decision I was trying to make. However, one of my lovely but more literal friends remarked: I’m glad I’m not driving in town with you today. It was then that I realized (late in life I suppose) that not everyone sees in metaphor.

I see everything as metaphor. 99.9% of my brain functions as a metaphor– or a simile– one or the other. I suppose this can be an obnoxious (frustrating) trait at times. I am someone who will analyze every word you say just in case you meant to say something else. I can also provide you with some seriously important information just by telling you that my roses are blooming today– out of season.

The following post is a bit of prose about my lovely backyard tree– all the details can be taken for facts as they’re written. It is a real 10 year old Red Maple that I love and adore. It ranks among those things about which I can have nightmares. Most recently, I dreamed it was attacked by tigers and torn to bits. In my dream, my husband replaced it with a spindly, useless sapling. Nightmare. That being said… the following prose is also metaphor. However your mind works, I hope you enjoy. If you happen to be metaphorically minded, I hope you find some wisdom woven into these words.

***

I noticed it some four years ago– casually rooting itself in my backyard. It’d been there for quite some time. Without any thought for how it might grow or even if it’d survive, it was planted carelessly by the Builders.

It had been there since I moved in, but its presence lacked command. Then one autumn, the leaves turned a lovely red and fell numerous enough to rake into piles, igniting my pleasure and snagging my attention.

In that first year, I could only see it from my kitchen window. Small and new as it was. I’d stare at it while I washed the dishes. Once I watched my daughter sit under it and cry after we’d fought. The trunk, still nimble, cradled her and laced its low hanging tendrils through her fingers.  The tree seemed to shield her from my storms. That was the year I realized my ghosts were too big for me to exorcise alone.

Season after season, I’ve watched it grow. On cool Saturday mornings, I’ll sink beneath it into an Adirondack chair and sip coffee while the One reads the paper. Blankets spread for picnics, pools filled for babies, flowers planted and birdhouses hung– the tree is a Presence and part of my home.

In the winter, I avert my eyes. Bare black limbs reveal the stark, uninspiring landscape of a docile suburban life. It is my teacher in the winter, protecting me from neither sun nor wind. Gnarled fingers scratch against the sky and leave me to writhe in my thoughts. Winter brings anger and confusion. There is no warmth between us in winter– that season when it moves inside itself, challenging me to find beauty in its sparseness.

The seasons always change. When the chill leaves the air, I wander through my yard, finding my way to its branches. Tiny red buds pop along its limbs– goosebumps of anticipation. Slender green shoots extend like tender fingertips from the ends of last year’s hard brown bark. More height, more breadth every year. It always comes back to me taller– stronger.

One autumn it became very ill. A boring bug had gotten inside it and was eating it from the inside out. We killed the bugs and severed the infected limbs. We fertilized its roots. Then waited. When the spring came again, it burst open and grew with new vigor.

Its arms have grown wide enough to offer generous shade in the summer. Its branches strong enough to stand the weight and exuberance of the children as they play among its heights. This summer my son asked if he could build a treehouse in it. I had to say no– it was a strong tree, certainly, but not that strong. Perhaps another year? Perhaps by the time it grows strong enough you’ll no longer have a need for a treehouse, hmm?

From the top floor of my house, I’ve watched it creep slowly into view. Each year, its tufted top becomes more visible from my bedroom window. If I lay in the center of my bed to read or write or contemplate the spider on the ceiling, I can sense it there in the window.

This year, its welcome presence in the most intimate parts of my house is unmistakable. I open the blind and there it stands with a soft wave of good morning. This October, it ignited into a red flame I’ve not yet seen in any years past. Perhaps from all the rain. Perhaps because its roots have grown deep and feast fully from the bounty of my backyard. Raging against the blue sky, it simmers and crackles in an unmatched confidence.

I watch as the leaves begin to fall. I ache as if this tree is a human spirit leaving me one leaf at a time. Damn it– I say to it as the limbs grow bare and empty siding slapped landscape comes into view. Revel, I should, in this last glorious offering. For it has not been this red or this strong or this tall before. I feel quite truly as if it knows me– even as it falls asleep and abandons me for the winter.

There’s nothing to mourn with the falling leaves. It remains there, imposing in my backyard, visible everyday from my bedroom window. Its roots have spread themselves wide and have broken the surface of the ground. They brush against the bottom of the fence railing. There’ll come a day when the One will say to me, “The Maple roots are bowing the fence. We’re going to need to do something.”

And I will say– without hesitation– “Indeed. The fence will need to be moved.”

October Mourning

I watched a single leaf waft
Silhouetted against the October clouds
Fluttering and dancing like a spotted moth
On a sure descent to the ground

It lighted at length amidst the grasses 
A breath, a sigh, a release
I watched as its crimson color soaked
into the ground beneath

Its fragile form soon withered
Where it’d lay I could no longer tell
Drawn home to feed the reaching roots
Of the tree from which it fell 

White Flag

Ah Winter–
you savage assailant
You stir, I see, on this cold Autumn morn
Awakening with a rumble that blanches the ground
You stretch your ravenous slumbering body
breaking your summer fast with the roots of my garden
You breathe in the sky and frighten away the small birds 

The groan of your anticipation fractures my will
you see now–easily– that September has been grey
there’ll be no warmth in my bones
no reserves to stave off your insistent advances 

Your black magic precedes you
shackling the air around my feet
shrinking this big house
thickening my blood
What do you think, old man,
that I’ll fight your heavy arms?
Is it the kicking and screaming
crying and lamenting
that amuses you so?

I already know in these early days, I’ll be no match for you
You’ll rouse my demons and draw the shades on my spirits
I cede you now this battle; the war for this soul is far from yours
I’ll pull you a chair close to this fiendish fire
We’ll negotiate your spoils over absinthe and a drag
We are, after all, old friends are we not?
Together we’ll await the caw of the midnight Raven 

Psalms 90:1

I live completely in what You have made. The sky is my shelter and the sun my blanket. My rooms are adorned with the changing leaves, with the fruits of the earth. I walk with ease on this muddy ground. You play for me with fingers made of wind. You tease me through the stealthy rustle of a crow in the cornfield. Through your earth and through all that springs from her– You gently offer me the dwelling place for which I yearn.

Too often, my love and my Lord, I roam far from You only to find myself longing for home.

Pieces of Venus

Sweet Venus–
goddess and muse–
chiseled away
in chips and chunks
by God
by man
by time
by happenstance.

Ah but lovely lady–
bulwark that you are–
you remain sublime
bewitching
exquisitely fine
all with so many pieces missing. 

Conversations with Trees

I’ve been feeling old these last few weeks. I haven’t exercised much through the pregnancy and nursing of the baby. I’ve stayed active enough– just not exercise (and you know what I mean). I’m feeling it too.

An aching in my joints. A fatigue that’s hard to fight through in the afternoons. A general malaise that equates to slowed down. I’ve started a bit of yoga again– funny how regular stretching soothes the aching body.

Last week I was laying on my bed staring out the window at my Maple– a tree at the very beginning of its life as trees go. We have a relationship– that tree and I– I like to believe it can hear my thoughts.

My hands were aching in the joints, and I was having one of those spiraling moments where I was imagining myself 30 years in the future with painful crooked hands riddled with arthritis. Hands are a big deal to me. It’s one of the parts of the human body that fascinate me. To envision mine as a source of pain causes me distress.

I stared at my 10 year old Maple tree. As it happens, my cat was sunning herself on the bed too. My cat, sleek and black with cutting green eyes, is 13 years old and I thought, Poor kitty–you’re getting so old. In people years, she’s approaching 75 years old (seriously I looked it up).  She’s crotchety too– like an old lady. Compared to my cat, I’m a spring chicken.

I rubbed my hands. My glance wandered back to my Maple. I imagined it staring back at me. I wondered, how old am I tree years? As I figure it, I’m already about 150 years old in suburban Maple tree years.

My Maple probably shakes its young limbs when I walk by– says to the Norwegian spruce– my, my, that one’s getting old. We won’t have her much longer. I’ll be sad when she goes. But we’ll get a new human. I wonder how many humans we’ll have– three, maybe four? The Norwegian Spruce quips, You may only have 3 or 4 humans. I’ll probably have 5 or 6. The Maple snaps, They’ll cut you down before they let you reach 80 feet– soon as those legs of yours start heaving the sidewalk you’re finished.  

I looked down at my cat. In tree years, you’re 350 years old, I tell her. How’s that for crotchety?

My conversations with trees wove in and out of my week. We went into DC for one of our regular summer educational days. As our last stop for the day, we explored the Hirshhorn Outdoor Sculpture Garden. In the corner of the garden, flaps of white caught my eye, like pale petals snagged. There was a tree covered in small white squares of paper. We ventured over to see what kind of “Art” this tree was supposed to be and discovered it was one of Yoko Ono’s Wish Trees.

Yoko Ono is setting up trees in various cities where people can write their wishes on the paper provided and tie them to the tree. It’s an ancient tradition she carries from her childhood in Japan. When the tree is full, all the papers are sent to NY to be added to a larger exhibit. I’d never seen anything quite like it.

We walked around reading the wishes of strangers. I wish my husband wasn’t so grumpy. I wish I would pass my exams. I wish I had a parakeet. I wish people wouldn’t fight. I wish for a peaceful world. I wish to get into college.  I wish for a better day. I wish I would get well. On and on and on. The wishes of a thousand people strung together on one tree in a garden in the city.

My children wrote their wishes. Jackson wrote, I wish people would never die. Clare wrote, I wish there would never be tornadoes. They hung their wishes next to a wish we couldn’t read– it was written in another language.

I was deeply moved by this tree that captured on its fragile limbs the wishes of humanity. I was saddened by the hopelessness of that tiny piece of paper. It twisted and flapped in the wind, lost among all the other wishes. I was heartened by it too. Even in its slightness, each delicate white square spoke of human perseverance. Hope and hopelessness together at once. The wish of my heart, written down on a scrap of paper and tied to a tree with all the other wishes of all the other people.

The tree was an ornamental– a novelty tree. One that grows to a bare 20 feet tall. Its spindly arms lack the strength for tree houses or tireswings. A tree meant to be beautiful, to please the beholder. A delicate tree whose very character spoke of the nature of human longing.

It occurred to me, in a week when I had become aware that my towering Maple would know the secret wishes of me and many in his lifespan, that I tied my wish to a tree whose lifespan matches my own.