Imagine sitting in the cool soft morning air, the light brightening with the rising sun, the dew still sparkling on the leaves. The cool blooms of the hydrangea glow refreshingly in the soft light. You smile, put down your cup of coffee, and head off for your morning walk. It is 6:30 AM.
That was yesterday. Today the sky is hazy, the air is heavier with humidity, and although the temperature is still only in the 70s, the word refreshing does not come to mind. It is 6:30 and you are not particularly looking forward to this walk, but you go anyway.
Upon your return the light reflected on the hydrangea seems like a cool breeze welcoming you home.
I've been sitting at my desk not blogging this morning, simultaneously striving and yearning for structure and routine, while at the same time struggling with my own need to upset my own structures and the resulting burst of energy followed by the exhausted let down that leaves me unable to do anything much. I suppose I just have to accept that this is a significant part of who I am, and stop struggling against it. Those exhausted fallow periods are also great germination chambers. But what do I write about? And when and how much? How much is shown? How much is hidden? Well, even when it seems the world is laid bare, the process of writing it is a bit of a screen, a letting go and an organizing of something but never the full thing in and of itself.
When I was young I would sometimes write in my journal that everything written there was simultaneously a lie and the truth. I suppose as I grow older, this seems even more apparent to me, that what I think and see and believe and write seems so true to me at the moment and yet, as soon as it is thought or written, my perspective and my understanding begins to shift.
Actually, much of the morning I've been sitting here at my desk, in front of my computer, not blogging, because a visiting cat was curled up in my lap and I hated to disturb her. So my thought were allowed to wander. And this cat, who has been sweet and friendly and curious since she arrived, this cat who has sought out affection, but warily so, stood on my lap to be petted and eventually relaxed just a smidge and lay down and curled up into a mostly contented ball.
It was this very state of wary contentment that shifted my intentions this morning and left my thoughts whirling. This cat on my lap is very sweet, and she was somewhat contented. But she is not in her house, she is not with her people, and although she is safe and warm and fed, we are strangers here. And that she curls up on my lap at all seems almost remarkable.
And I am left thinking about process, thinking that much as I adore a good project, life is more process than project. I am left thinking that if we allow ourselves to believe otherwise we are only fooling ourselves. And, since I am sitting at my desk, thinking about what to write, I find myself thinking about this process called blogging. Is there a happy path between interior and exterior worlds? Is there a middle ground between pretty pictures and shiny surfaces and shifting sands of perception and understanding? Why bother? Is there a safe road between clinging to routine and a defined structure, and allowing ourselves to lean in and seek whatever comfort we can in a world that changes around us despite our best efforts to contain it? What is this need to write, to share, to dissect, to explore the boundaries between sharing and hiding? I truly don't know.
Visiting miss kitty loves to sit in the windows and look out at the world. Occasionally she wanders from window to window. If I am in the room, she will utter a plaintive meow. I wish I could tell her that this is only temporary, that her people will come for her soon. But of course I cannot. I suppose, in some ways, blogging is my way of looking at the world through a window of words, not that I am crying out for the people I have lost, but it is a way of attempting to make sense of what I see and sometimes of what I don't see, and attempting to communicate and share that journey.
And now my own cat, my sweet Moisés is here demanding his share of lap time. And perhaps that is all the ending I need. There are no answers today, just transition and purring and what comfort we allow ourselves to find.
My mom has returned home to Garland, TX, and I am catching up and settling back into my life in its normal mode.
A part of that process of settling has involved just sitting back and appreciating life, what I've been given, and where I am now. As Tikka and I return home from our walk, I am continually filled with joy at the sight of something as simple as the green lawn, and the flower beds in front of my house. The last two mornings I have also reflected on those morning hours spent outside while mom was here, how pleasant it was to be out digging and planting, mom sitting nearby with Tikka on her lap, and those pleasant conversations.
There is nothing particularly special about my gardens: the original plants that came with the house have been rearranged, a few new plants were brought in by the landscapers, and I've filled in with pretty generic annuals mostly sourced from Lowe's. It is a young garden; plants need to grow into their space and much filling in is still required. But it is in many ways a far cry from my previous garden, partly due to the more formal nature of these front beds but also simply because of its generic mass-market roots. In Hyde Park I sought out the esoteric and the unusual. Here not so much, at least not in front, in the public face of my garden.
But its not really about what is in the garden. My joy stems from the fact that it is green and growing, instead of an ugly flat expanse of clay and patchy grass. No, that is not quiet true. My joy stems from the fact that it is green and beautiful and growing, and that I have spent time in that wet grass playing with Tikka and digging holes in the dirt, and some of those green things I have planted have thrived and become beautiful, even though others have not.
When mom visited the first time, this was a sad place. The original landscaping of the yard had been terrible and it was the worst yard on the street, but I hadn't had the time or energy to address it. Inside was no better. The furniture was still pretty much as it had been arranged the first days we moved in, with only a few very minor changes. The house was still in many ways the house we had moved to so that George could die in peace. We moved here because our grandson was here, we moved here to be near Owen and his family, so that George could spend time with his grandson, and so that Owen could get to know his grandpa. Our first year and a half here was shaped by the ever-changing landscape of decline and impending death.
When mom visited me in Knoxville the first time, this was still a house of loss and grief. I was not particularly comfortable here, the house had been purchased to meet a need that was no longer present. Six months after George's death, there were still moments when I wanted to sell everything and walk away. But of course that wasn't the answer. We cannot walk away from loss; we cannot walk away from our problems; we must embrace them, and nurture them and allow them to flower at their own pace.
When I asked mom to come visit this spring, I told her she should see the house, that it was my house now, and I was happy here. A simple rearrangement of furniture had moved the place from something cold and uncomfortable, the sleekly modern at war with quirky family heirlooms and antiques, from something that accented the fault lines of transitional space into something more harmonious, a place where the old and the new met more comfortably. A place that honored the rounding off of sharp edges both in the house and in myself. And she came. She came for a month and this sense of harmony held. Not a single one of those sharp edges poked out to jab at us unexpectedly.
By now you can probably surmise that I am not actually writing about the house or the yard, or even in a way, about Mom's visit. I am writing about all of those things and none of those things. Because what I have been given in this life, and where I am now really have nothing to do with things but with attitude and grace. Like that house in Hyde Park where I wanted unusual plants, we tend to think of our worth, of who we are, as defined by our careers, what we amass, what we think, who we associate with, and so many things that really have only partial relevance to who we really are. That doesn't mean we can ignore the world, or even should ignore the world. Nor does it mean we should throw everything away and live in a cave. I suspect that living in a cave has nothing to do with who most of us really are. But that we need to learn to relax and accept, we need to learn to rely on that internal sense of self, and learn to love that self and honor it, rather than the stuff of life. The stuff of life is nice. But it is not who we are. It is not what is important.
While mom was visiting I let a lot of things slide. Not everything. I did what I needed to do, did what I what I was asked to do, what was required, but didn't really go the extra-mile in terms of my obligations outside of being here with my mom and enjoying her visit. I am behind on many things, and although they are not unimportant, at the time of my Mom's visit, they were less important and could wait. I realized that extended time with my mom, extended time, when other obligations could be carried lightly, is a gift. Whether I accept and enjoy that gift or rail against it is my own choice.
It seems to me I wasted a lot of time and energy when I was younger fighting against the perceived weight of obligation. I struggled with my mom's extended visits, simultaneously resenting the compounded pressures of work, mom, spouse, family and community. I let all of those outside pressures define me to myself, rather than letting my inner self guide and define me, and regulate the role they would play in my life. I realize it wasn't really my life I was worried about, it was expectation. I worried and fretted about living the life I felt I was expected to live, the things I was expected to accomplish and accumulate and do, and yes my Mom's expectations weighed as heavily as the expectations of my career, and the expectations of every other role I played in my community.
And so I am grateful. It seems I needed this time, we needed this time. I am also sure I have neglected something, that something that should have been done remains undone. But increasingly I see that life will always remain undone, that nothing is finished, and all I can do is listen and hope and take each moment as it is offered to me. Hopefully, I mostly manage to do what I need to do. Hopefully, when I fail the slack is taken up elsewhere. Most of all however, I hope that I can manage, at least occasionally, to enjoy the gifts that are given to me in and of themselves, without expectation, without guilt, simply as the gifts they are.
Mom's mittens are finished. She likes them and they fit.
Since my mother is allergic to all animal fibers, these were knit using a fingering weight cotton and bamboo yarn with a touch of nylon to keep them from stretching out, Panda Cotton Solids by Cristal Palace Yarns. The pattern is "Zebra Long Fingerless Mittens" by Jorid Linvik.
I had forgotten how much I enjoyed two-handed stranded color work and may knit myself a pair of fingerless mittens as well, although I don't particularly think I will use the same pattern. I will probably also use wool. I could have used a pair or mittens this past winter, and I'd much prefer to knit my own rather than purchase something, even if they won't be worn every year. But I don't have yarn or plans at the moment, just a vague idea in my head.
As I stood in the front yard yesterday evening, admittedly a little frazzled, I looked up and saw the gorgeous sky. Almost immediately I calmed.
All those lists running through my head: the things I still needed to do that day, the things that I was neglecting, even, the things I had failed to do, slipped away into the quiet.
I realized that everything will happen in its own good time. That doesn't mean I should abandon everything; some organization and planning and energy are always necessary. But it does mean that there is time for rest, time for sunsets and sunrises, for busy-ness and repose.
There have been days I look at the mail piling up on my desk and chastise myself. But then I remind myself that I do something every day. I meet the immediate needs. Then of course my mind moves on to the other things I am not doing: the blog post I want to write about a book that has helped me to coalesce so many random thoughts, the blog post that doesn't want to be written — yet. I look at my distracted mind and tell myself to focus.
But why? A little lack of clarity is beneficial. And time with my mom is precious. Truly would I rather be sitting at my desk muddling over words when I can sit with my mom, chatting, knitting, just enjoying her company? How many times do I get to spend 3 weeks with my mother anymore? Not often. Admittedly I don't visit for long stretches of time, And this is only her second visit here in 3 years, Actually probably only her second visit in over a decade. How much time is lost doing things that hold no value in our hearts, sacrificing attention to those we love for things that truly do not matter? Far too much I fear. And how do we know what matters if we do not take time to rest, to listen, to know our own hearts?
To everything there is a season. To every day there is a dawn and a sunset, a time for doing and a time for resting. And increasingly I have come to accept that part of myself that will cast things and projects aside for people: for what is the measure of our lives beyond our touch on the lives of others?
It is morning again. I have another day with mom, the first day in this last week of Mom's visit, and once again my priorities are shifting, thoughts left unfinished. But then nothing is truly finished as long as there is life to be lived.
It was the sky that captured my attention first this morning while Tikka were taking our walk.
It was that very clarity that calmed me, its very painterly aspect, and the broad generous strokes of light and cloud. It was as if the sky was beckoning me to welcome in a new day.
The last few mornings, last few days actually, I have been distracted and unfocused. I have been unable to still my wandering and raging thoughts, to accept the quiet, to just be in solitude with the world. Perhaps I was just more rested this morning, and so more willing to ease into calmness, ease into being.
When I reached the top of the hill, I notice that hint of gray along the horizon was fog wrapping itself around the peaks of the hills and ridges, and as the sun rose, it gradually thinned and lifted, like ghosts, or wisps of thoughts and dreams, not lost forever, but like memories, resting along the fringes of thought.
And we walked. Quietly in the early morning air. Birds singing, admiring the flowers, the drops of dew on the morning grass, the combined scent of honeysuckle, and magnolia punctuated by grassy greenness.
Mom and Tikka have been offering supervisory support while I have been out in the garden in the early mornings, shown here in a photo I posted to Facebook a few days ago. In fact, I am appalled at what a wimp I have become, and after a week of early morning gardening sessions, I am declaring the remainder of the week garden free. Well, planting free. I enjoy a bit of a morning putter, I enjoy time on the screen porch, I certainly enjoy dreaming about the garden's future and what to put where. I even enjoy digging and planting, although in moderation.
Mom's first day we went out to Oakes Daylilies, where I picked up the 38 daylilies I had ordered, except that it ended up being 45 daylilies, because I forgot about the "bonus" daylilies. A dozen of them went into the front beds, along with another couple of dozen plants, large and small. You can't really see the daylililes in the photo below, mostly because they aren't in bloom yet, and they are mixed in with the daffodil foliage, which has not yet died back. It is much easier to plant daffodils amidst daylilies, I have learned, than vice versa. The front beds are by no means finished, but they look good enough for now.
It wasn't the planting that did me in, although I am out of practice, It was probably the two loads of clay that got piled up on my Louisiana Irises when the sprinkler system was repaired, the two loads of clay that I dutifully dug up and hauled away to save my precious green sprouts, and my dreams of more flowers.
But the repair to the sprinkler system meant that paths in the back could finally be finished, and the back yard transformed from a sea of red clay mud to something both useful and potentially beautiful.. I've contributed nothing to the above scene except for the dirt on the table, and the two potted plants: a bay leaf and an angel's trumpet.
Oh, and this pot, the one most responsible for most of the dirt on that table outside. I brought the pot in to the screened porch, but delayed washing the dirt off the porch until the digging was complete, which I suppose means today.
Friday May 15th was the final concert of the season for the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra, and it was also Maestro Lucas Richman's last concert as music director. The concert was eclectic, a retrospective of sorts, and was greatly appreciated by an audience quick to shower the orchestra and its conductor with thunderous applause. The concert closed on the perfect note with an encore of Variation IX, Nimrod, from Elgar's Enigma Variations, a beautifully and poignantly performed tribute which provided the perfect finishing touch on a concert that, for me offered a summing up, as well as a series of questions about the KSO itself and how it defines itself, its life in music, and the search for a new Music Director.
The concert began with a fairly uninspired but comfortingly familiar performance of the Egmont overture by Beethoven, and moving from there to a marvelous performance of Tchaikovsky's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra. The soloist for this piece was the orchestra's own concertmaster, Gabriel Lefkowitz, who is also a highly skilled and talented soloist, and his breathtaking performance showed great understanding and nuance, intelligence and passion. But what truly made the piece shine was the way the orchestra played with the soloist as opposed to against him, as has too often been the case in concerts I have attended. The softly overlapping conversation between the violin and the orchestra at the end of the cadenza was heart-wrenchingly beautiful. In fact, the entire ensemble worked well together, giving each other the space to shine in their own time, especially the brass, who managed a harmonious interplay combining both controlled boldness and a softer counterpoint as needed, and the woodwinds whose questioning interplay floated in and out with a memorable clarity that haunted and shaped the music around them.
But of course this performance, more the exception than the rule, lead my perambulating thoughts toward musings on the nature of the relationship between soloist and orchestra, and yes, even the role of the conductor. Because of course, a concerto, a work that combines a soloist and an orchestra, is not a battle of wills between a soloist and orchestra, but a choreographed (or orchestrated) conversation between the soloist and the orchestra, a give-and-take that allows each party to both strut their stuff in turn, but also to facilitate and provide the perfect background for this musical relationship to assume its own space. This requires that the soloist and the orchestra, with the assistance of the conductor, work together, be willing to work together. From the distance of the audience, one is often inclined to lay the blame or praise on the conductor, and although the conductor should play a role, the members of the orchestra itself are also a participating body, a body which may or may not cooperate. I was reminded of this at the after-party, when an orchestra member, upon receiving a compliment on the Tchaikovsky piece, stated that the orchestra wanted to support and work with Lefkowitz, but that often, with other soloists, they "just don't care". I found this simultaneously elucidating and disturbing because, simply stated, if you don't care, you can't make beautiful music. It is that effort to connect, that interaction, that willingness to both give and take, between the soloist, the conductor who must act as a bridge between he soloist and the members of the orchestra, and the members of the orchestra itself, that makes music into something magical that elevates the soul. You can have all the technical virtuosity in the world, every note can be perfect, but if you are disparate groups, even hitting perfect notes, you are defined by the disparateness of your efforts. It is in the coming together that music is made.
All this and the intermission is just ending; let us move on to the second half of the concert:
First up is Mahler's Symphony #10, Adagio. Richman noted that this work was new to both himself and the orchestra. Alas it is not new to me. I have heard at least 4 performances of this work, some even by great Mahler scholars and interpreters, and I have heard recordings of it as well, some very good. In answer to the comment that you can't just listen to a recording of Mahler, I would both agree and disagree. A wonderful live performance is enlightening, but a recording can be edifying as well, although in completely different way. I do not play an orchestral instrument, and would consider myself but a novice pianist, it seems to me that music needs to be both heard, actively, and performed, also actively, so that both heart and hands, mind and music can form their own conversation.
But onto the performance.
The Mahler was obviously lovingly an passionately played by the orchestra. It seemed that the musicians were invigorated by the performance but Mahler can be complex and notably difficult. The music can appear to be a mishmash of things that don't go together and make sense, and the difficulty is in getting to that point where they can not only be performed but where the performance finds that sweet spot where everything fits together and makes some kind of sense of the mishmash that is modernity, or was modernity in Mahler's time and still is today. The orchestra did not quite pull that off, that magical integration where it all comes together and lifts the soul, although the violas were absolutely brilliant, capturing mystery in a lush richness that provided the glue that held the brashness of the rest of the work together.
The final piece was Ravel's La Vase. Again it was a piece the orchestra obviously enjoyed performing. It was also a piece that I believe most of the audience loved. To me, the performance seemed to lean too heavily toward the Germanic, toward the spectrum of Strauss and Viennese waltzes. Yes, I know this sounds strange, because, la valse, the waltz, revolves around a waltz, a classical waltz. But it is so much more than a waltz, it is a study of a waltz, of the end of an era, and there is a strong sense of emotion and loss, but emotion and loss shaped by distance and intellect. I found the performance lacked that sense of intellect. As I said earlier it was too German, and not French enough: heavy handed in its decent into darkness, it lacked the clarity and opulence I associate with Ravel, and that complex intermingling of intellect and distance playing off the lush emotion and bitterness that marks Ravel's farewell to the end of an era.
And of course all this leads to my other big question of the evening. Where is the orchestra going from here? Next year's program looks fascinating. We will have several conductors, all of whom are interviewing for the position of music director and, given that the best performances of this past season were, to my mind anyway, lead by young guest conductors, I cannot help but be intrigued. But of course there is more to being music director than conducting, and more to that even than my solo opinion. And this is good. Because the simple truth is, that from the perspective of the audience, sometimes too much attention is given to the conductor and not the musicians. From the perspective of the audience, I do not know if that fabulous performance I heard was because the conductor and the musicians worked well together, truly collaborated and lead each other to new discoveries in the music, or if the music heard on the night of the performance was the result of a battle of wills unsustainable in the long run, or even if the conductors were truly awful and the musicians pulled themselves out of mire only out of force of will in defiance of the conductor. I also do not know what the musicians themselves want. Choosing a Music Director can be like walking a tightrope through a minefield of conflicting interests and petty fiefdoms, although I would like to hope it is not so.
But, for the most part an orchestra needs a conductor. Yes I have heard the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra, the famous conductor-less orchestra. But even they chose a core group of musicians who direct the performance of each piece. There must be a unity of vision to a performance and unity is hard to achieve in a large body of trained and skilled professionals, each with their own opinions. The musicians may have performed a work so many times they know it in their sleep. It may be true that for a certain orchestra playing a particular part of the repertoire, the conductor is not necessary. But another orchestra member, equally experienced, may see things differently, and even if there is no disagreement, to fall into the path of the familiar risks the danger of falling into the trap of believing there is nothing more to learn from the music. For what is the point of performing a work again, other than to find new depth and meaning? What is the point of going to a concert to hear something so old and tired you can hum it in your sleep unless you are looking to find something more, something that touches your soul and shows you something you hadn't recognized before?
A great music director needs the sensibilities of a great artist and skill as a conductor; the music director also has to be willing to work with the orchestra, to listen, to facilitate, to guide a body of musicians who also have to be willing to work together, to listen, and to recognize insight and leadership when they see it and have a willingness to care, to create that conversation that makes music into something great. Of course harmony of will is not always achievable. We are all, musicians, conductors, and the audience itself, but human. The question now is where will this search lead? Where will this orchestra, which I have seen incredible growth over the course of the last four seasons find itself headed next? Or am I wishing on a star, or a mythical orchestra and a mythical music director that don't really exist, in my own hopes for something more?
When I went to Portland earlier this month, I told myself I was not going to buy fabric or yarn. I bought both. You saw the green knit when I posted it, shortly following my trip, but truthfully there was more. I had packages shipped home from two stores, a few items that I believed would not have fit in my tiny roll-aboard suitcase, but in fact they probably would have fit, and I could have saved myself the shipping expense. I would have had to check the bags, as it would have been unlikely I could lift them, but since I checked the bag coming home anyway, would not have been a problem.
But of course, then I would have not experienced the joy of opening the packages. I failed to anticipate that sense of excitement, the thrill of opening, even knowing the contents. I had simply put both packages aside, apparently patiently awaiting just the right moment. I opened the smaller package yesterday, a package from Knit Purl containing some lovely Habu yarns, and even knowing all this, my pleasure in the unwrapping was palpable: the promise, the anticipation. Would I still love the yarn? Would the getting actually be as exciting as the anticipation had been? Yes, and Yes. Even more so, in fact because of the promise of creation that lies ahead.
The four cones at the bottom contain yarn for a simple summer top, probably something that is fairly open, knit on big needles, and meant for layering. There is an image in my mind, but the details have not yet been confirmed. The two yarns at the top left will be for a lightweight scarf or shawl.
Neither project will be started right away. I have two projects on the needles, the zebra mitts, and a second project, a shawl using some Jaeger Sienna in a pale pale lilac which I have decided I shall never wear. The mitts will be finished first, the shawl is too small even to photograph well, only 5 repeats, out of 75 for the main pattern, have been completed.