A Grand Affair

On this December morning, I am sitting in my living room enjoying the sight and smell of the decorated Fraser Fir that stands in the bay window.  As beautiful as it is in and of itself and also because of its transient nature, it is not the star attraction in the room.  The real treasure is the female presence in the corner.  I knew she was feminine from the moment I first saw her.  She is my piano.

Several years ago I bought her from a family that was selling the old church piano to fund their daughter’s wedding.  It was difficult to determine the potential of the piano, but I followed my gut feeling and brought her home.  

She is an upright grand constructed of solid, quarter-sawn oak and cast iron.  She is barely moveable.  I can date the manufacture date of 1893 from the Steinway serial number inside.  Underneath the keyboard is a sign of something from her past.  I can envision a “rebellious” young teenager lying on the floor of the Sunday School room under the piano in 1973 penciling on the peace sign that remains there to this day.  I love it!  After a major investment in her repair and rebuild, she once again has the solid, sweet tone of the Steinway masterpiece she was created to have.

All these attributes are not what make her my treasure.  I have had a years-long love affair with her.  She comes alive under my fingers, challenges me and makes the music sound better than perhaps I can play it.  I can pour out my emotions through her and she always listens with clear empathy, no judgment involved, and allows me to express myself in a beautiful way.

Somewhere through the years I began using her.  It wasn’t just about the magic of merging piano, artist and spiritual creativity anymore.  I started using her to impress people, to feed my sense of self-worth.  And the magic just sort of dried up.  I lost my artistry and creativity by turning the music into church WORK.  Instead of finding joy and adventure on the bench, all that awaited me there was stress, fear and dread. Along with that realization and my burgeoning inner journey into losing religion and finding true spirituality, I decided to relinquish my church WORK.  Leaving that behind is like abandoning a label that I once coveted.  Oddly enough there is no sadness or regret about my choice, only freedom to rekindle the magic.

At this moment I vow to never turn my gift of music into work again.  I firmly believe that music is one of the God’s greatest creations and gifts to us.  It deserves my best effort at accomplishing what I love and finding delight in the gift wherever seems right to my soul.

Now I am once again finding myself on the bench at odd moments during the day, tentatively picking up old favorite pieces, finding the dexterity in my fingers isn’t too far gone, remembering the joy I found here.  Even in this moment I am antsy sitting here writing because I just want to play my favorite Christmas music along with this treasure of a piano. 

This will be her 117^th Christmas.  She has seen many piano players come and go through the years and will likely be played for many Christmases long after I am gone.  I hope she remembers my touch and her part in my journey, and I secretly harbor a desire that she likes me the best of all who have drawn music from her soul.

Without music, life would be a mistake.

Friedrich Nietzsche

A Line of Gold Thread

The house is still this morning except for the heater which I feel blowing on the side of my neck.  I get up to turn down the thermostat and am reminded once again of how thankful I am for this new programmable model.  My dad installed it just the other day.  When I come downstairs at 6:15 in the morning, the house is already warm.  I think of it as his warm hug each morning.

One day I mentioned how I would like to have a programmable thermostat, and, true to form, Daddy came to the rescue.  He had an extra one in his stash of odds and ends, and offered to bring it over and install it.  Daddy does anything he can to make my life better.  Sometimes he calls just to see if there is anything he can do for me that day.  It might entail driving me around when my toe was broken, fixing something in the house, or just having lunch at the hot dog place with me and Mom.

When I was three years old, he was in the sleeper of an 18-wheeler and his partner fell asleep at the wheel.  Daddy’s back was broken in the accident.  I don’t remember much about it except for sitting on top of his full-torso cast and knocking on it.  His back hurts a lot now and he has to be careful not to aggravate it, so he is limited in his activities.  Yet he always finds time to help and goes out of his way to share his time and infinite skills with me.

We have installed numerous light fixtures, water faucets and ceiling fans together.  He has hung at least 15 windows in my house.  This is how he shows his great love for me.  It is the largest thing about him.

He is thin, the fat and muscle shrinking away with age.  His gait is affected by his back pain and peripheral neuropathy in his feet.  But his eyes are the clearest, brightest blue I have ever seen, his white hair is full and as gorgeous as a lion’s mane, and his smile the same as I always remember – lighting up his whole face when he sees me.

I know Daddy’s love for me is pure and steady and deep as a long, slow-moving river.  But his love for my mother is most remarkable.  It is the rudder by which he guides his life and his moments.

They have been together for over 65 years.  He prefers her company over anyone’s.  They don’t always agree and I am sure they have their own issues, but they remain as steadfastly together as swans who mate for life.

Daddy is very quiet and speaks only when he has something worth sharing, except for when just a few family members are together and he readily joins in the conversation. His voice is gravelly and he cannot produce much volume because of a paralyzed vocal chord.  But he never misses an opportunity to say, “I love you,” or “You be pretty, now.” 

My dad, who can fix anything and who loves with greatness, can easily melt into the background.  But it is those people in the background who provide the unwavering love that keeps the rest of us afloat – a firm anchor tethering us when we need it.  He provides my grounding and shows me that love is the most important thing.  I hope I can come close to his grand capacity for what he teaches every day.

I love you, Daddy.

There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself.  ~John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, 1994

Fierce Grace

The sister of my soul shared a beautiful sentiment with me, so I give her credit here.  She imagined how different it would be seeing other people through God’s eyes, not through the filter of our own experiences.

That made me think about my family and how our history and daily interactions result in blinders and filters on my eyes.  There are always minor irritations, flat-out anger and miscommunication when you live with someone – or even when you don’t.  

Every night my husband turns off the NUMLOCK on my keyboard and the next morning I input transactions into Quicken that have no numbers.  Every night he checks his email and finds the NUMLOCK key turned on.  We both mutter under our breath about the daily irritation. God must think we are terribly petty creatures who completely miss the magnificence of the humans who share our most intimate spaces.

I envision how God sees us.  Our Creator surely looks upon us with love, whole-hearted acceptance and grace for our shortcomings.  That is how I perceive my Creator – full of grace.  Do I have simple, no-strings-attached grace for my family?  Or for people I don’t even like?  Or for telemarketers and foreign technical support?  Don’t even get me started on that rude woman in the subway.  Do I even have enough grace in my entire being to lovingly deal with a NUMLOCK standoff?  Some days I wonder.

The same wise friend also talks about “fierce grace.”  Ferocity is “unrestrained zeal or vehemence; furiously active or determined.”   Imagine being determined to see all the people you meet with eyes of grace.  I aspire to live that fierce grace, but am not totally successful.  Well, marginally successful if I am honest about it.  But I am more aware that the people in front of me are beneficiaries of God’s grace and therefore my own should follow.  I need to walk the walk with a little more “unrestrained zeal.”

Perhaps we must consciously encounter each individual aware that our interaction may bless us both in some way.  How differently would we answer the telephone if first we acknowledge that one of God’s finest creations is on the other end, and ask ourselves how this exchange can result in a blessing?  How often do we answer the telephone with irritation at the interruption? 

We may find that life looks very different when we follow a path of fierce and conscious grace.  I can only imagine.

PS – I decided to turn NUMLOCK off.

The Queen of Lists

I confess that I am the recently self-deposed Queen of Lists.

During my reign, I maintained a list for work items, house-related projects, personal lists, shopping lists, Christmas lists and a list for the highest priority items from the other lists.  There was even a special book in which to keep the lists orderly.  High priority items went on the dry-erase board along with the grocery list, which was then transferred to paper for the actual grocery trip.  Ah, the Queen of Lists was also the Queen of Organization & Control and believe me, she was good at it.  All those little tasks marching in an orderly fashion between lines of paper, some with check marks showing their contented state of completion.  What lovely lists!  What guilt-ridden lists.

Almost immediately after my cancer diagnosis, I had a visceral reaction to that once-revered book of lists.  It had morphed from a useful tool into a judgmental and controlling force that had entangled the strands of my life, sucking out spontaneity, creativity, and the desire to just be.  I didn’t simply toss it into the trash can, I threw it with a punch that would make a fast-pitch softball player proud.  I could almost hear the Queen of Lists shouting “Off with her head!” just like the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland. Ha! What a relief it was to hear that book of control thud into the can. 

It was time to live, not list.  It was time to stop finding personal satisfaction and significance by checking off items on a never-ending list.  It was time to open my hands and heart and let true life happen in the ripeness of its own time.

During months of self-introspection, silence and growing awareness, I developed a single list that has replaced all of the others.  It is an ongoing work that I hope to never finish and there are no items to check off.  It is a list of lessons I am learning.  Significant lessons that took way too many years to realize.  Lessons that allow for the beautiful unfurling of life.

“Why” is often irrelevant and unanswerable.  “How do I choose to respond” is what makes a true difference and allows healing and growth.

Embrace those who speak truth.

Seek the full face of God in its many forms, restoring the sacred place of the Divine Feminine in my life.

Being is infinitely more important than doing.

Silence can be priceless.  So can the sound of noisy children and garage bands.

Some books just aren’t worth finishing.  Some books should be read at least twice.

Music is one of the greatest gifts to mankind.

Friends and a good husband don’t care if you have hair.  A great husband will even shave your head and declare that this is a sexy look on you.

Always ask for pain meds if you even think the situation warrants it or if multiple needles are involved.

Some days can only be managed with rich, dark chocolate.

Some things we get through a day at a time.  Some days can only be gotten through a breath at a time.

Speaking truth from your soul is highly underrated.  Being nice is (often) highly overrated, especially when it gets in the way of truth.

There is great value and new life in losing my religion and discovering my spirituality.

There is an inner voice that most of us lose somewhere along the way and there is hardly anything in life more important than finding it and letting it always speak clearly to us.

Always dance when you have the chance.

Accept help with grace.  Offer it with love.

Always, always choose life and live it with a fierceness that recognizes the fragility and transience of it.

One last confession:  I have begun writing my grocery list again.  The family and the dog appreciate that!  But there is no Christmas list, or house list, just a few reminders on my calendar or sticky notes that occasionally get lost on my rather messy desk.  Forgotten details are a price I willingly pay.  Why?  In this overscheduled world?  This is the only life I have and the more I let go, the more I truly live.  Try it.

A Leaving

A magnificent writing spider, Charlotte, chose my front door as her home about four months ago.  We enjoyed watching this amazing creature from behind the safety of our screen door.  As the weeks went by she grew tremendously.  At least one bug would become trapped in her web almost daily.  Charlotte would move quickly from the center of her web out to the latest victim and envelop it slowly in silken threads from her own body.  She would actually spin the bug around and around while wrapping it.  My poet friend calls it “spider sausage.”  It truly is fascinating to watch for about 3 minutes, and then my husband and I turn away freaked out by the creepiness of it!  It is like watching a tragedy take place – you don’t want to see it, but you cannot turn your eyes away.

One day she wasn’t on the web anywhere.  We finally spotted her up in the corner of the transom over the front door constructing her egg sac.  It is gray and about the size of a shooting marble.  Charlotte stayed up there a few days, not moving much and quite a bit smaller in size.  I expected her to die shortly, but within two or three days we found her back on her web.  It was in sad shape, not the best trap for catching lunch.  We decided to leave the porch light on at night to help attract some food for her.  Charlotte started eating a bug now and then.  She eventually gained enough strength to rebuild the web and continue her strange writing in the center.  She grew back to her normal size.

Then one day my husband found her lying still on the porch, apparently dead. He picked her up with one of my spatulas (yes, they have all been completely scoured and sanitized now) but she wiggled her long legs and moved slowly back up the screen.  She continued to be very lethargic.

The weather turned colder that week.  Charlotte never made it all the way back up the screen to her web.  One day she was just gone, perhaps sustenance for a bird or simply blown away.

Charlotte’s egg sac is still in place.  I don’t know how long it will take for the babies to hatch.  As much as I enjoyed Charlotte, I have no desire to have hundreds of her offspring on my front porch.  Hopefully the wind and birds will help with population control and we will eventually see two or three of them next spring.

Watching a writing spider live out its methodical life is fascinating.  The beauty, ingenious creation and “circle of life” process is phenomenal to witness.  It is amazing how a small spider stealthily entered our lives and brought wonder and joy.  Every time I come up our driveway, I look for the dark spot in the center of a web up near the top of the door frame.  I keep forgetting that Charlotte is gone.

The Surprise Houseguest

I didn’t invite her.  She just showed up at my front door one day about a month ago.  She had all her belongings with her and simply made herself at home…right there…on my front door.  She was suspended between the screen door and the brick wall in all her eerie, punk-rock-like beauty – a writing spider.  Her web was a perfectly designed and executed piece of art. 

It is not very original, but I named her Charlotte after E.B. White’s Charlotte.  After a few days, I imagine that she knows it is me when I open the inner door to check on her.  She occasionally is startled when my husband approaches.  Maybe she recognizes that he is the one who wields the leaf blower way too close to her web.  And what a housekeeper she is…Charlotte keeps her web pristine, making quick repairs after her prey is caught, cocooned and turned into lunch.

Folklore says that if she writes your name you will die soon.  I prefer the alternative story that says if a woman watches the writing spider weaving in the dew of the early morning, she will see the name of the man she is going to marry.  I’ve been checking her web every morning when I come down to start the tea.  So far it looks like my next husband will be WWWVVWWVVV.  I wonder what country he will be from with a name like that?  She writes the same name every day, so I guess she is pretty convinced.

I can’t open the screen door without destroying her web and facing the possibility that she will leave for good.  The furniture delivery men looked at me askance when I told them they had to carry my recliner around the house, across the deck, through the porch and in the back door because I didn’t wish them to disturb the spider that was living on my front porch.  My guess is if they had seen her, they wouldn’t have hesitated to make a detour.  She is huge!  In fact, I am a little scared of those creepy, long legs.  If she is still around at Halloween, I won’t need to pull out the plastic spider I usually put on the front door.

As the days turn cooler, I soon expect to find an empty web, ragged from the weather and no longer awaiting reconstruction.  Charlottewill have lived most of her adult life on my front porch.  I thank my Creator for the miracle of this surprise guest.  She brought amazement and wonder to us in her brief season here.

We are on the lookout for her egg sac that will be filled with hundreds of babies.  I hope that as in Charlotte’s Web, only 3 will choose to stay.