Pandemic postcard #34: Life as one big art project

February: I did not see this coming. My daughter Natalie announces on social media that she has recorded an album, and I spend my next-to-next-to-last night in Guadalajara marveling at her nine-track Something to Harvest release on BandCamp. Performing as "Fine Hands," Natalie wrote all the songs, played all the instruments, overdubbed her vocals, even painted the cover art. One of my favorite lyrics becomes all too poignant within a few weeks: "I know you said handshakes give you anxiety. So give me your hand, I'll hold it still as can be."

March: It's a few weeks into the pandemic. "Give me something small to paint," Natalie writes on her Instagram story. "Self portrait but as a snail," writes one friend. "A lone backroad under the stars at night," suggests one, and another wants to see a cat playing drums. My request is for "the tiny sea creature of  your choice." Natalie paints and posts a series of watercolors, and they're all gone within 24 hours. At least I get some screenshots.

April: Natalie does her hair and applies theatrical makeup, dons a velveteen green pantsuit, becomes "Boo Boo the Fool," and posts photos on social media, all in the name of amusing herself and her friends as the weeks of social isolation turn into months.  

May: It's Mother's Day and I'm opening my gifts on a Zoom call with Natalie. One of them is the original watercolor from her Instagram session, the little horseshoe crab she painted for me. It's one of the best gifts I've ever received.

July: It's Natalie's COVID birthday, and she makes the best of it, baking herself a beautiful cheesecake garnished with berries and mint and candles. Her creativity extends to the domestic life, from artful cookery to inspired thrift-shopping.

September: In another Instagram story, Natalie posts pix of her latest "Sunday Craft Day," little heart-shaped earrings that read "Love They Neighbor" and "Abolish ICE." (In addition to her artistic ventures and holding a full-time job, Natalie has dedicated hundreds of hours this year to speaking out for racial justice. I have learned much from her--and from other young adults in my life--on that front, too.)

November: A week ago Tuesday, I get a text from Nat. "Putting up holiday decor while watching election coverage to try and balance the vibes," she writes. Natalie has always loved Christmas, and by last weekend, her apartment was a wonderland of lights and music and good cheer, and why not? We all need all of the above this year more than most. 

____

I'll accept a tiny bit of credit for Natalie's creativity. I played in a band and we recorded a single when I was her age, I introduced her to The Beatles when she was little, and I dragged her to art museums even when she really didn't want to go. Her dad is musical, too, and he brought home big rolls of newsprint for her to spend hours coloring and drawing freehand on the living room floor. She has had many other mentors along the way, including Karen, who ran a storefront art studio for kids in Twin Falls, Idaho; the music department at Boise High School; and the creative community she has claimed as her own as a young adult, in Boise and beyond. No one creates in a vacuum, and we all have abundant inspirations and influences. 

But what thrills me about Natalie's creativity is that so much of it is self-directed and self-generative--she never spends much money in pursuit of her muse--and she follows through. Plenty of us dabble in creativity. Natalie, more than most people, embodies it. If I have one resolution for the rest of this pandemic period, it's to be more like my daughter. I want to spend fewer hours worrying about the future and more hours producing joy through music and art and random reveries of fancy. 

None of this is frivolous. All of it is life-affirming and counter-cultural, signaling to society that happiness can be made, not bought, and that each of us has the ability to live life like it is one big art project. Short of a residency on Kauai (unfortunately not in the cards), I can't imagine a better way to spend the long pandemic winter ahead.

Pandemic postcard #31: Waiting to exhale

My phone ring tone has been the same for a very long time, "Right Here, Right Now," the upbeat 1990 song celebrating the fall of the Berlin Wall and authoritarian regimes in Europe. I've lately thought about changing it since there definitely are other places I'd rather be than in the middle--is this the middle?!--of a pandemic and a bonkers election season. But then there's the line that keeps giving me hope, the one about "watching the world wake up from history ..." 

 

We are on a cusp of a new dawning. You can feel it, right? (You've already voted, by mail or in person with early voting, yes?) America has occasionally flirted with a meaningful reckoning over the kind of country we want to be, but we've never quite made the commitment. But this year, amid the manifold crises of 2020, it feels like Decision Day is finally here.  

 

Of course, Decision Day will take a while. Folks have been voting for a few weeks, and we may not know the results until well into November. Meanwhile, I want to know: What do you plan to do on November 4 and beyond, regardless of the election results? I asked this question on Facebook the other day. A few folks answered with notions of day drinking, shopping for flights out of the U.S., and watching riots on TV. I sympathize with the long-simmering stress that those replies belie.

A little escape, for a day or a week or more, was a common theme. Meg and Joan, who've been especially active this campaign season, say they plan to finally take a day off. Frances says she'll either be glued to the TV, "or I might be in the mountains for the day breathing deeply knowing politics and the virus are not there." Eileen reports that she'll be on her first vacation in several years, newly retired Joanne is on a personal retreat exploring a possible relocation, and Elaine mentions the possibility of "a COVID-cautious trip to see friends and family."  

 

Some folks admit they may be adrift, uncertain what they will do, which is such an understandable response given the vast emotional energy we've put into surviving four exhausting seasons of The Trump Show. Others mention the importance of routine. Carol, a doctor, will continue to heal the sick. Felicia will keep up pro bono legal aid work to help small businesses navigate the pandemic "and a recession that is likely to get worse before it gets better regardless of election outcomes." As he has every day since 2013, Joe will get up early and take a music-fueled walk (and knowing Joe, with every step, he'll be thinking about what he can do next to help his friends and his community).

 

Everyone knows that no matter what happens, there will still be plenty of work to do, as activists and humans. Nonprofit executive Rene has a staff meeting planned for 9:30 a.m. November 4 "to help us remember EITHER WAY that much, if not all, of the work we do will carry on." Dennis says he'll continue to advocate for the world he wants to see for his children and brand-new grandchild. "First though I will hug and play with that little boy and be comforted and inspired by his smiles," he adds. That answer made me smile, as did Nathan's, who notes he'll be celebrating his daughter's first birthday the day after the election and working to protect the election results. 

 

Fellow longtime blogger Tom says he'll continue to metaphorically chop wood and carry water. Kristen has been volunteering to monitor election irregularities and misinformation, and Katherine will start a new discussion group the week after the election, pairing chapters from the book Becoming Better Grownups: Rediscovering What Matters and Remembering How to Fly with episodes of On Being With Krista Tippett. (Of course I am signing up for that.)  

Theresa and Diana and David plan to continue to cultivate joy through cooking and music. Rebecca will seek balance through caring for family, "doing what is in front of me to do," and "finding energy in intentional interactions and the random encounters I experience with people ... I have to hold on to my belief that what weaves us together is stronger than what would pull us apart."

I say amen to all of this.

 

As for me, here's how I envision how my November 4 will look: I'll wake up and spend no more than a half-hour getting the latest news. (I'll set a timer.) I'll write in my journal. I'll take a long walk and spend some time near Puget Sound. I plan to avoid the news for most of the day, but I'll check in for an update by late afternoon, and I'll attend a webinar on advancing the National Popular Vote. Night will come early, and I'll end the day at an online vespers service with my faith community. Beyond November 4, I'll continue working to write the change I want to see in the world, here at Surely Joy and also through a revival of my circa 2010 project, Write the Change. 

 

It won't be long now. In a few weeks, we will know whether a majority of Americans have collectively decided to reject division and build beloved community. We are waiting to exhale and yearning to breathe free, yet the reality is things are going to be messy for a while. 

 

The biggest task ahead of us may be making sure that no one gets left behind: definitely not the people of color who have been waiting far too patiently for this time, and also not the white people who may be hurting because they've lost a false idol. Few people are irredeemable, and almost everyone deserves a lifeline. It is time for us all to thrive, time for us all to joyfully wake up from history.

 

Next week, I'll share a story about what I was doing the day after the last election. No matter what happens in 2020, it won't be any weirder than what I experienced in 2016. Until then, be well and remember: rest is fuel.   

 

Pandemic postcard #18: Beacons in the dark

Have you been able to see Comet NEOWISE? It is visible in the Northern Hemisphere for a while longer, rising in the evening sky and coming closest to Earth on July 23. I haven't seen it yet; I was up before dawn trying to catch a glimpse last weekend, when it was close to the horizon, but city lights and hills precluded a view. (A rising Venus was amazing, though!)

I'll never forget seeing Comet Hale-Bopp in the spring of 1997 on a drive home from Salt Lake City to Twin Falls, Idaho. Motoring north through dark high desert skies on Interstate 15, then Interstate 84, I had the comet in my view for several hours, nearly the whole way home. That evening ranks with the 2017 total solar eclipse as one of the great natural phenomena I've experienced. How fitting is it that Comet NEOWISE seemingly came out of nowhere in late March, becoming visible to NASA scientists during the first pandemic surge? We need all the bright lights we can find in these dark times, and I hope to see this new comet sometime next week.

As I mentioned in last week's post, I've been "at camp" this week. It's all been online, of course, but it has been wonderful to reconnect with my Eliot friends, even over Zoom. We've been hearing timeless tales of many cultures from talented storyteller Will Hornyak. We've had a talent show, games, (including a fun offline scavenger hunt), TED Talks, worship services, small-group discussions, and much more. I will be sad to see it end. I may even sign up for the August camp, which I've never attended--but I continue to have lots of time on my hands. (More on that below.)

Camp meant a lot of screen time, but I've managed to spend this entire week away from social media, and I took in only a bit of news each day. I'll be sad to see that end, too, but as Will related in one of his programs, a vision quest can't go on forever. Ultimately, people need to return to their daily lives. Of course, this is something we're all wrestling with now. As people go back to their routines of in-person socializing, many people are getting sick and sickening others. It's an unsteady dance we're doing, and it seems we'll be doing it for another year or so, until a widespread vaccine is available. I know this is especially hard on families, as well as on people experiencing homelessness and people with little social contact of any kind.

Will told a story this week about two villages. (You can watch an earlier performance of it below.)  A natural disaster had brought the villages to the brink of war, but with imagination and creativity--and some wise grandmothers--the villagers solved their problem without bloodshed. As Will says, we need new steps, new dances, new songs, and new stories in times like these. Stories can break the spells we weave around ourselves, the narratives that sometimes keep us feeling like change is impossible.

With the end of July nigh, I am among the millions of Americans who face the end of enhanced unemployment benefits next week. Although I've freelanced much of my life, I'd love to find a full-time job that I can dig in and do until it's time to retire. I applied for one in late May that would've been perfect for me, finally learning just this week that although my resume made it through several "cuts," I will not be a finalist. I know it is no easy task to find work in one's late 50s, but I still believe something good will emerge in due time. I'll keep looking for the beacons in the dark, and I will try to be one, too. My superpower is helping people tell their stories, after all, and there's a big need for that these days.

Thanks for reading. I'm going to spend some more time away from screens next week--to go camping, look for the comet, and hopefully see my daughter (who lives 500 miles away) for the first time in 2020. I'll be back with another dispatch in two weeks. Until then, be well...and be the light.

 

Pandemic postcard #6: Thank you, world

... and the sun is my alarm, and the moon, she makes me dream ...

Hello again, happy 50th anniversary of Earth Day, and happy 30th anniversary of one of my all-time favorite albums, Goodbye Jumbo by World Party. As I grabbed the code to post the video of "Thank You World" below, I saw that the album was released on April 24, 1990. Serendipity ... and dig how songwriter Karl Wallinger sings his hymn of thankful praise to the Earth while seemingly sheltered in place, but dreaming big indeed.

On Earth Day morning, I headed out early to beat the rain. I have some standard walking routes within a two-mile radius of my home: one that takes me to Maple Leaf Park, another that threads through the Pinehurst neighborhood, but I am prone to wandering, especially now. That's how I wound up across the street from a house I had never seen before, with a brightly whimsical sun shining over shingles of inlaid clouds, birds, and fish. When I got home, I looked it up and found this article about the last time it was for sale, plus a better screen capture from Google Maps.

Discovering this house was delightful enough, and the rest of my Earth Day walk was chockablock with Seattle's riotously wild spring pageantry. For every semi-manicured yard, there are countless examples of barely tamed urban landscapes, with flowers spilling out of street-side rock walls and Seussian cypress trees shamelessly flirting with Douglas firs. The Emerald City is absolutely crazy with color and boisterous with birdsong right now, and it's all the better because there is almost no vehicular traffic.

Once the pandemic subsides, I hope the cars mostly stay parked like they are now. I want people to be well and I want children to get back to school, but perhaps people who can work from home will continue to do so, at least some of the time, and people will find ways to get around that don't involve burning up our beautiful spaceship home. These are challenging times, no doubt, but they are making us all more creative in everything we do.

Until next Friday, be well and enjoy your neighborhood, wherever you are.


 

Pandemic postcard #5: Farewell, Kelly

Kelly Yost Hove, 1940-2020

It was the early 1990s, and--about a decade out of college--I had finally become a full-time freelance writer. At least that was my aspiration; I didn't have a lot of work at first. But as a former newspaper reporter in Twin Falls, Idaho, the town where I lived at the time, I knew a lot of people. I'm pretty sure it was Judi the bookseller who alerted Sam and Kelly Yost that I could help them out.

Sam and Kelly ran Channel Productions, a small record label that had two releases at the time, both classical piano collections by Kelly. I signed on to help with writing tasks as well as with radio relations, and it's no exaggeration to say I may not have survived my first year as a freelancer without the Yosts. They had plenty of work for me at a time when Channel Productions was adding artists and going full tilt. (Kelly's recordings wound up selling about half a million copies.) As I got busier with other projects--including travel writing and having a baby--Kelly and Sam were always accommodating, welcoming me back whenever I had some time to give them, often accompanied by my infant daughter.

Sam and Kelly eventually parted; Kelly remarried and continued running Channel Productions. I moved to Boise but we stayed in touch; although Kelly was no longer recording, I helped her get her back catalog onto Amazon, and she served as a job reference for me on several occasions. A few more years passed and I moved to the West Coast. In an email exchange during the summer of 2013, I wished her a happy birthday and she wrote back to say she had closed the business, partly because she had been diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment. But she was 73 by then, in good spirits and ready to enjoy retirement with Kent.

I saw Kelly one more time, in 2018 on a rare visit to Twin Falls. Her memory loss was more advanced by then, but she remembered me and I was able to thank her for all she and Sam had done to help me a quarter-century before. I am grateful I had an opportunity to express that gratitude when I did, for Kelly died on Easter Sunday from complications of COVID-19. She was 79.

Kelly's piano playing mirrored her way of being in the world: She was calm, steady, shining quietly from the inside out. She loved her native Idaho and its natural wonders, and she gained fame as far away as Japan, where she was featured in a documentary film, celebrated as much for her environmental activism as for her music. I was truly blessed to know her and to work with her, and my heart goes out to her husband Kent and her son Brook and to the many others now mourning her loss.

Rest well, Kelly.

 

___

 

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'Melancholy: A Way to Happiness'

That's the title of a chapter I read this morning in Ageless Soul: The Lifelong Journey Toward Meaning and Joy by Thomas Moore. I'm enjoying this book. In it, Moore notes how we age throughout our lives--and about how it's natural for melancholy to increase as we get older and see more illness and death in our lives.

Mom, me, Dad

Today marks the sixth anniversary of my dad's death, so it's naturally a melancholy time of year--especially since my mom also died in early spring. As difficult as it is to face the loss of loved ones, I've always felt grateful that my parents both passed from this Earth in its time of rebirth. Spring softened the blow in both cases, even though their deaths could not have been more different. I was just 25 when I suddenly lost my mom; I was 50 when my dad died after years of decline. Both deaths helped prepare me for future losses, but my father's much more gradual passage was much more profound to me because I was old enough to process it in all its complexity.

I remember how, when I was living through my dad's difficult final months, I sometimes referred to the experience as my "holy days of obligation." As his daughter, of course I felt bound to help him through his final days as he and my mom cared for me as a child. That was the obligatory part, the often-difficult work of tending to the ever-shifting needs of someone wrestling with cognitive decline and physical pain he frequently could not articulate.

But it was an unbelievably holy time, too. I remember one evening when I wearily left Dad's apartment, crossing the parking lot to catch my bus on a nearby corner. A full moon had risen and I spontaneously broke into song:

Spirit of life, come unto me, sing in my heart, all the stirrings of compassion ... *

It was a preview of even more profound times to come, culminating in the day Dad said goodbye, three days before Easter 2012. On that day, as my brother and I sat vigil knowing the end was near, the stirrings of compassion became more real. With the help of an angel from hospice, we learned what it means to have a good death.

Moore writes how sadness is part of growing older. We don't need to rage against it; in fact, if we can sit with our melancholy, it need not turn into existential dread or depression "but instead only one strand of mood among others." And that is how I feel this rainy April day: As the best-laid plans sometimes shift and some long-held dreams recede, we learn acceptance and perspective. Or, as Moore says, "If you can allow melancholy its place, you have a better chance to be deeply happy."

* Spirit of Life, a beloved Unitarian Universalist hymn. Words and music by Carolyn Dade.

The waiting is the hardest part

Fifth in a series for #UULent2018.

Today's UU Lent word is patience. Lord, it's a long, long road.

I had the privilege of seeing Tom Petty perform live twice: once back in the 1980s with Bob Dylan and again last summer at Safeco Field. None of us there for his concert last August knew that he had fewer than 10 shows remaining and that he'd be gone six weeks later. It was all about the moment and the power of music. I'm sure it was the same five weeks later for the people who saw his very last show at the Hollywood Bowl.

Petty's death, especially coming hours after the heartbreaking day in Las Vegas, was a wake-up call for many of us. That's a cliche, but it's true. Stop waiting. Start living.

I've been doing a lot of waiting lately. The client that gave me the largest amount of editing work last year won't need any freelance help for a bit (and even that's not guaranteed). Meanwhile, I've been sending out article queries and essays and letters of interest. It usually feels like these are going into a void and, given the amount of email most of us get these days, I rarely expect a reply.

I have exactly one assignment at the moment, and it's not going well. I need to interview a handful of people in their 50s or 60s who've moved to Edmonds, Washington, from beyond the Seattle area, and I've sent several dozen inquiries to people who might know of such folks. So far, I have found none. Fortunately, I still have about a month until my deadline, so I'll start walking the streets of Edmonds soon in hopes of randomly finding my people. It's not a big place, and wandering its charming downtown is a fine way to spend time, so this isn't exactly a problem--and my inquiries elsewhere may yet bear fruit. Still ... it's more waiting. (And if you or someone you know recently relocated to Edmonds from outside the Seattle area, please raise your hand.)

So my writing and editing work is a big ball of waiting right now. But many other things are just fine. Baseball starts soon, and I'll be back for a third season as an usher at the ballpark. I've had more time to meditate, read books, run errands, do spring cleaning, help my partner, and take long walks. I also have more time to do my favorite thing in the world, and that's travel. My sweetheart and I have a train trip planned soon, and I'll be going to the wild edge of Scotland a month after that, volunteering to get garden beds ready for spring and taking inexpensive room and board in trade for my efforts.

I left full-time work again just over two years ago because I value time more than money. It's a hard way to live at times, and patience has never been my strongest virtue. I get better at it all the time, though, and I'll keep practicing--and living like there may be no tomorrow, or thousands of tomorrows.

I want to be in the room where it happens

Fourth in a series for #UULent2018

We’re living in a time when it’s possible to experience anything from a concert to a face-to-face conversation with friends in real time online, no matter where we are.

It’s amazing, but it’s still not the same as being there in person, without a screen as intermediary. Of course, I am writing this on my phone while sitting on the bus. But I’ve been blessed to have a few indelible in-person experiences in the past few weeks.

I traveled to Twin Falls, Idaho, earlier this month for the 25th anniversary party of the Unitarian Universalist fellowship I helped start there in 1993. It was a joy to see people I hadn’t seen in years—both from the Magic Valley UU Fellowship and from the Boise UU Fellowship, which brought its choir and other congregants along to help celebrate.

Earlier that day, I was able to check in on a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. She was diagnosed several years ago with cognitive decline, so I wondered whether she’d remember me. She did, and we had a lovely visit—one we couldn't have enjoyed on the phone. It’s true her short-term memory is gone; she asked me the same questions over and over, as I expected she would. But she has sweet memories from decades gone by, and she is able to appreciate a favorite painting as much as she ever could. And interestingly, she told me how much less stressed I seem these days than when I was younger and always in a hurry. Hmmmm ...

Later that same wonderful week, I finally saw Hamilton onstage at Seattle’s Paramount Theater. It was all I’d hoped it would be; I still have earworms 10 days later. For weeks before the show, I'd been enjoying the original cast recording, but hearing and seeing this landmark musical in person was one of the best entertainment experiences of my life—made all the sweeter because I was able to share it with people I love.

Technology is a fine way to reach out to people and to experience the world. But being physically present—at least some of the time—is priceless.

A small nod to the elephant

I'm voting today. After several sessions spent filling out my ballot in the leisurely, considered manner afforded us here in enlightened Washington state (where we got our ballots in the mail two weeks ago), I'll walk to the drop box outside my library later this morning and officially exercise my franchise. Then as best I can, I hope and plan to tune out this election until sometime late Tuesday night, or maybe even Wednesday morning.

Isn't it ironic that the already-protracted, hyper-agitated 2016 election will fall on the latest possible date it can? (It needs to be on the Tuesday after the first Monday in November.) If I could, I'd be in New York City to see Hamilton, one of the only shows-that-must-go-on Tuesday since it's sold out (and seriously, what better way would there be to spend Election Night 2016?).

But that's not an option, so here are three ways I've been avoiding the elephant in the room. Perhaps you'd like to try them, too.

1) I've been limiting my media consumption, traditional and social alike. A little NPR in the morning goes a long way. Social media at night is an especially bad idea for restful sleep. Set a timer. Walk away.

2) I'm listening to music. Really listening. Music as meditation. Nine minutes and 23 seconds of So What is both soul balm and mental floss.



But if you need something more topical, try this on for size.



3) I'll watch a movie or two on Tuesday night. In 2012, I was one of about a half-dozen people who watched Argo at the Grand Lake Theater in Oakland, CA, as an effective means of avoiding election returns for as long as possible. This year, I'd recommend Dr. Strange, which my sweetie and I saw on its opening day Friday. This marvelous mind-warp isn't any weirder than anything we've seen in the news this year, and it's far more more fun.

May the force be with us, America.

Make time for magic

At  the Cineplex Odeon theaters in Canada, they've been showing this short video before feature films. I caught it on a visit to Vancouver last weekend. Take 2 minutes to watch it. You might want to keep a few Kleenex handy.

Beautiful, yes? Thanks to everyone who made this little reminder to take time for things (and people) we love. Special thanks to vocalist Adaline for breathing new life into the classic Genesis song. (Here's a short "making of" clip.)

One of my life's greatest pleasures is going to the movies, and I especially love going with my sweetheart. Last year, we went to 42 movies together. I know because we kept track on a calendar. (Here's part of the page from August.) 

We like smart movies, movies that tell stories, movies where we recognize bits of our better selves, as well as the struggles and heartbreaks -- but mostly the joys -- of being alive.* And while watching movies at home is great, too, there's nothing like sitting in the dark with a bunch of strangers and watching the magic unfold, larger than life. (I also love this clip for the Regal chain, even if it's selling Coke.) 

Here's to magic, and another great year at the movies.

*Some of my favorites from 2015, in alphabetical order: 

The Big Short, Brooklyn, Diary of a Teenage Girl, Dope, The End of the Tour, Grandma, I'll See You in My Dreams, Inside Out,  The Martian,  McFarland, Mistress America, Room, Seoul Searching, Seymour: An Introduction,  Shaun the Sheep, Spotlight, Steve Jobs

(We haven't seen The Force Awakens yet!)

Musical magic

With 5.7 million views as of this morning, this is three minutes of pure joy. I've watched it several times this morning since my sweetheart showed it to me. My favorite parts come around 1:13 and 2:26.

Is anything more capable of producing joy than music?

Kudos, of course, to Family of the Year for the original song and to Richard Linklater for using it in 2013's best movie.

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

I have no big new year's resolutions. My goal for 2014 -- after a few hectic years in the rapids -- was to rest in the eddy of my new job and new life in Seattle. It was a good course, and I plan to stay the course in 2015 -- though I have a few new projects (like this blog) in mind. Life is good. Enjoy the waning hours of 2014, friends, and I'll see you in the new year.