Blog Slog

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If I wrote for a column, or if my material appeared in printed and/or published form, I doubt it would be thus. But as it is, my writing is relegated to the status of “blogging”, and my writings are not considered to be essays, but rather, they are called “blog posts”. An uglier word than “blog” cannot possibly exist. Nor could a piece of writing be held in any lower regard than the common blog post.

The notion that people who blog (I disdain the use of this word as a verb) struggle to create content is maddening to me. If you don’t wake up in the morning bursting with “content”, then do something else with your time! Write because you desperately wish to express yourself, write because you have a need to communicate and share witness with others. Write because you have insights to share with your fellow humans. Creating content for its sake alone seems like pure insanity to me.

When I am called a “blogger” it becomes easy for people, including good friends, to disregard my posts as mere entries in a diary. And even though they may indeed serve to chronicle my life’s events, my writings are so much more than that. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say that they were merely mundane journal entries – even if this simple estimation of my writing was considered to be true – how is that not of some interest? I personally believe that diaries can be wholly captivating.

From time to time, I myself enjoy going back over archived posts and re-reading them. Recounting Oscar Wilde’s words about his own diaries helps to restore my spirit, for I tend to agree with the man: “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” Indeed.

Here comes the diary entry:

Elihu is living in Tianjin, China for the next several months. He’s enjoying his post at an aeronautical engineering company which makes drones. He has found his tribe. His boss understands Elihu’s talents and skills and gives him opportunities to use them well. Now past the first exhausting few weeks, he is beginning to fully explore and enjoy his new environment.

In that China is such an enormous country, there are many languages spoken there; Mandarin was chosen by the government as a national language so that its many citizens could communicate with each other. Elihu’s four flat mates speak Mandarin as a second language just as he does – so you can believe my “little linguist” is busy trying to add a few more languages to his list. Eight and counting….

Thanks to WeChat, Elihu, his father and I can communicate instantly. This is what frees me from undue worry. Elihu and I sometimes chat for a half hour, as easily as if here were here with me in the kitchen. Having this window to another culture is fascinating – it’s such a rare experience!

My son has created a wonderful life for himself. And as his world expands, so does mine. Proud and grateful mama am I.

Big B Day

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Today is my 60th birthday. Throughout the past few months I have experienced a slow, burning sense of dread about becoming this old. Feeling keenly the paradox of finding life in and of itself a pure win, and yet at the same time feeling inextricably trapped in a nightmarish scenario of decay and irrelevance.

Strangely, yesterday and today I have been covered in a sort of calm. It’s a new feeling, not intense or forward in my thoughts – but instead, running in the background like a maintenance program. I have not experienced anguish or lament at reaching this landmark birthday, but rather I have been feeling a general sense of peace these days. This is new to me, and unexpected.

I am a vain woman, and it would be silly to deny it. But I am also an insightful woman. I counterbalance my vanity with the awareness that I am vain. (Not that it gets me off the hook entirely, but I offer that by way of partially absolving myself of that distasteful character flaw.) But as things feel from where I sit in this moment, I care less than I have in the past. Sure, I don’t want you to see me in full light with a great lens, but if you do – it won’t slay me anymore. Cuz my turn at youth is up. I get it.

It’s not as if I won’t still play the game – I’m still a vain and insecure person – so I’ll play it alright. But somehow, today, it doesn’t feel quite the same. It just doesn’t feel that critical, that urgent. I’m 60, not 40. Not even 50. Nope. I’m older. And it is what it is.

To tell the truth, what I’m feeling is a sense of freedom.

I don’t believe an outlook can truly change in an instant, or on some landmark day, and yet I can honestly say that I’m feeling differently right now than I would have expected. Feels kinda like I just don’t wish to hold myself accountable to standards that I simply can no longer meet. You know, the physical ones. Cuz things are different now. They really are. In just the past three years I’ve felt a decline. I can’t fathom cleaning up my five-acre property the way I did in the past. It’s beyond me now. I can’t reset the stones and hardscape like I did a decade ago. I’m not confident about cleaning my own gutters anymore. I know that I’ll never ride a motorcycle or handle lines on a sailboat again. These things do kinda break my heart, but I also know that I’ve had more than anyone’s fair share of great experiences. I can move along without regret.

My son is on his way to China for the next four months, a dream of his come true. My mother and brother live next door, and I am doing relatively ok. I’m poor on paper, but rich in life. I have a handful of dear friends whom I love, I have a beautiful baby grand piano and a huge picture window which faces the distant hills. I’ve got it good. So I’ll just take what I have and hold it dear.

Thank you, mom, for bringing me into this adventure, and for giving me everything I needed to make this life a pretty good one. I hope I’ve done the same for my kid.

Happy birthday to the spring babies of the family, Elihu and me.

Music Monster

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Melissa Ferrick at Caffe Lena in Saratoga Springs, New York

The size and complexity of the musical world blows my mind.

Genres and styles seem to be as numerous and varied as snowflakes. Just when I think I have a handle on things – at least within the parameters of the current, western culture in which I reside, and that I can organize in some satisfactory way the musical world as I know it today – I’ll learn something new about a subgenre, a style or a trend, and I realize it’s not possible. The musical world – even my tiny corner of it – is too big to fully understand.

In addition to my amazement at the boundless forms in which music exists, I am also fascinated by what people seek to get from music. It serves so many functions, and within those functions, so many aspects of music are valued in such different ways. I am endlessly curious about people’s motivations for listening to music. What on earth moves them?

Last night my own feelings about what’s musically important to me became clearer, and as soon as I got home, I began to digest my thoughts…

This evening I went to hear songwriter Melissa Ferrick at Caffe Lena, the iconic local venue here in Saratoga Springs, New York. My former husband produced what I believe to have been her first EP demo – the recording that came before her successful career began (starting on Atlantic Records), now over thirty years ago.

As I listened to her set, I observed the audience with care, as I do at all shows. I always note the reactions, whether folks nod or sway to the time, whether they mouth the lyrics, whether they sit stock still, whether or not they applaud or shout. It was fascinating to me how many folks didn’t move an inch as they listened. I’d say maybe five percent moved visibly. Melissa’s stuff is, as one would expect from a songwriter, mostly about the story, the choice of words. As I listened, I couldn’t help but think that the folks there present – as with folks who gravitate to singer/songwriters in general – didn’t seem to care so much about the groove or the harmony. Maybe even the melodies weren’t of top priority. They seemed to care primarily about the sentiments expressed. I imagined that they were listening for the language and the poetry. Listening for connection through story.

For me, that’s secondary. A clever lyric always impresses, but I don’t really want all that storytelling. (Says the woman who’s penned nearly 700,000 words of her story over the past decade.) And as for the nuance, the poetry? There’s a deficiency in my character, I fully admit it, because I don’t have a need nor the patience to listen for it. (I do enjoy reading poetry, however.) When I’m listening to music I’m wanting primarily to be soothed, to be taken to a place of ease and deep comfort. My objectives cannot be met by an evening of music consisting of essentially the same four chords with very similar voicings. For me, the story alone is never enough to carry the same predictable harmony, over and over. If I want a story, I’ll go hear someone read one. (I usually get a lot more enjoyment from the stories that come in between the songs than come from the songs themselves.)

Please understand that I know Melissa is a super-talented showman and songwriter, and her relationship with the crowd is beautiful. She’s top tier stuff. And her rhythm, her time? Her style of playing is built on it. Her groove is rock solid. Melissa is an all-around stellar human and badass musician. (But in light of how few in the audience were nodding in response to her time, it seems to confirm once again that for them, groove still takes a back seat to story.) Yet somehow – and I cannot quantify exactly how – it didn’t move me the way it did all those people there. Maybe it’s because I have no history with her material. I don’t know. Her set was a great thing to behold, and what she possesses is rare – and I’m glad I went, for sure – but on the whole, I don’t need a lot of solo singer/songwriters in my life. A few shows a year by great talents like Melissa will do me just fine.

There, I’ve said it. It’s been on my mind for decades. I’ve always known it, but I’ve never shouted it from the rooftops before. But now I am ready to declare that I am, musically speaking, a snob. Perhaps I’m even a bit of a simpleton. I want music to wrap around me like a warm blanket or tease me like a lover. I want to feel about a groove the way I do about a fresh, hot slice of thin crust pizza with just the perfect amount of char on the bottom. Oh dear God. That’s the good stuff I’m after.

I like things the way I like them, and at this point in my life I don’t wish to spend too much time trying to like things I pretty much know that I won’t. I’m always up for listening to something new, and I’ve probably spent more time critically listening to a far wider variety of music than most folks I know (thanks to my father, former husband and son and their huge combined musical orbits), but I no longer wish to give over hours of my time to music that I don’t really love.

Instead, I’ll take any form of Bach you have, I’ll take harmonically and sonically rich tracks of any genre, a few clever lyrics – then add in a handful of impeccably tasty sessions at Daryl’s House and I’ll be good. On the drive home I might want some hair bands to push me through those long, dark highway miles, and when I’m driving into New York City I’m gonna need my Cuban grooves on the way down and some deep R&B cuts on the way back. And when I can’t be soothed by tasty and tidy pop tunes, give me some straight-ahead jazz, the stuff that scratches the itch like no other musical form. On a fine fall day I might need to hear the sweeping expanse of a Mahler symphony. And on that first warm day of spring, I’ll definitely need some vintage Allman Brothers playing (with all the windows down) when I’m driving through Greenfield.

Metaphorically speaking, I listen the way I eat; the meat isn’t important to me, the sauce is. All I’m after is the bread and those sexy flavors. Actually, forget the bread. Brother, just hand me a spoon.

I don’t need a sophisticated story – just something I can identify with. Mostly, I just want a rich sound and a great feel. And please. When you’re sharing those lyrics, please… get to the point already. I’m here to witness your story, but do you really need nine verses to tell me about it? Give me a hook or a melody that I’ll go away singing, share a curiously clever lyric. Let me hear the kind of arrangement or performance that will make me laugh out loud because it’s that good.

As I see it, music and food provide the highest order of pure pleasure I’ll ever know at this point in my life. So this shit all better be pretty compelling. Music should sound as good as the best barbecue tastes.

After Melissa’s show I walked around the tourist town to hear the many lives acts whose music spilled out into the street. I paused at each, wondering what it was that appealed to the patrons. It was easy to see what all the cover bands offered; folks waved their beer bottles in the air and sang along with every line. Humans have enjoyed this sort of camaraderie for centuries. The jazz club was different, very few seemed to be listening, the music served more as an energetic bed behind the conversation. I moved on to the large venue in town and could feel the bass pushing my organs around inside my body before I reached the main room. It felt like a physical assault. Yeah, but this was a young person’s scene. Once I too had the energy – and desire – for a full immersion like this. But not now, it seemed almost violent. I didn’t finish out my tour of the town; I’m not a fan of electrified Irish bands; loud, midrangey and often on top of the beat, they usually just make me anxious. Kinda like Zumba classes. (Seriously guys, what’s with the crappy music at the Y? Someone, please, figure it out. Produce some compelling tracks already.)

These days I need the good stuff; I need the medicinal forms of music. Please, do your best to play and sing in tune. Bury the click or lay just a bit behind it. Let your string quartets and symphonies breathe and sway like great undersea plants. Give me a sonic profile that is balanced, lush, and just loud enough. Time is running low; I need to get to the good stuff now. I need to get to those tasty, salty crumbs at the bottom of the bag. Got no time for the filler these days.

Ok, so having just unloaded my uber-honest feelings about music, I feel I must make a confession: I do not find my own music to check many of my own requisite boxes. I’ve written songs that fit my current and limited purview; I write for me and a piano, not for a band. And it’s really more like therapy than songwriting. (Kinda like this collection of writings. So. Who knows how my songwriting might evolve?)

This songwriting thing is completely new to me, and I’m a tad disappointed that my process is confined to keyboards. Guitar players carry an arsenal of critical elements that serve to drive songs. I don’t have the built-in drummer of the strum patterns, I don’t enjoy the complex harmonic profile that strings create, and then there’s the portability issue. I have always been deeply jealous of guitar players, and it’s only getting worse as I realize all the components my one measly instrument is missing. I have begun to dream about having a band, of hearing how my songs might sound if they could only be fully animated. Who can I enlist? Fantasies of moving back to Chicago filter into my thoughts… At least there, I know musicians. I’m odd man out here, and it feels acute these days.

My efforts to find a duo partner have failed, so I’m skeptical that I can find anyone to help me animate my music. I dunno. I feel stopped. I’m such a critic, and yet I myself am worlds away from any sonic success. I began writing songs only to discover there are so many more layers to the process than I’d realized, to say nothing of what’s involved in producing it and bringing it to life. (I wish to add that I do know well about the production process, it’s just that I didn’t expect to get sucked in and wish for anything more advanced than simply writing a song and documenting it on my ancient iPhone 7.) With the skills and tools I have presently, I don’t have the ability to achieve a product that comes close to what I think might be satisfactory. Holding standards that I myself cannot live up to makes me feel a bit foolish, but there it is.

In writing my own music, I have created a monster. Kinda looks like my next project will be learning how to train the beast.

Postscript: Since publishing this post, it has been brought to my attention that a primary element of Melissa’s show is simply her incredible energy. Seems silly that I missed such an obvious thing; it appears that in my analysis of her performance and music, I missed the forest for the trees. Yes, Melissa exudes energy. She also exudes humanity and honesty. There’s much to be said for her and what she gives to this world.

Visit Elizabeth’s website here. Visit Elizabeth’s Instagram here.

Visit Elihu’s personal Instagram here. Visit Elihu’s tuba practice Instagram here.

Birthday Poem for Elihu on the occasion of his 20th birthday, April 28th, 2023

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Your birthday is now, right at 8:55, when post-childbirth drama you chose to arrive

This landmark occasion of leaving your teens demands recognition, by whatever means

I haven’t a gift and so after debate, I decided this best (besides now it’s too late)

You said “Rhyming comes easy, poems aren’t a big deal” in spite of assurance, my struggle is real

Yet spending some cash on a trinket or two would not suit you well, we both know this is true

So here, in the style of that small drummer boy, is a token from me (hoping not to seem coy)

I give you such love as a long-lasting treasure, that no technological gizmo can measure

(This particular blog template will not allow me to format this text as I’d like, hence the somewhat wonky appearance which I tried to justify with some additional punctuation.)

I re-discovered this post and poem by Elihu, which he wrote a decade ago, on his tenth birthday.

Visit Elizabeth’s website here. Visit Elizabeth’s Instagram here.

Visit Elihu’s personal Instagram here. Visit Elihu’s tuba practice Instagram here.

Final of Fifties

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There are some times when I long for the partnership of a marriage, times when I am nostalgic and perhaps even a bit overly romantic about the whole idea of aging alongside someone whom you know well. And then there are times when I feel pretty lucky, and I enjoy things just as they are.

Things took a tremendous turn for me almost fifteen years ago, and ever since, I’ve had to readjust my expectations. Life has been a challenge during the past decade and a half, yet it’s yielded results beyond any I could have imagined. I did the Green Acres swap; I traded my tony urban life as a famous man’s wife for a life on the farm as just another single mother hustling to make it all work.

You couldn’t have convinced me of it during those first brutal years, but now I know it was the best of any possible scenarios. My child wouldn’t have turned out as he has, nor would I have learned all that I have, if my husband had not left me. So many treasured memories of our shared life here in this tiny cottage in the woods as mother and child would not have come to be, so many life-changing events would never have happened if things had worked out the way in which I had expected them to.

But I am getting older. My body isn’t able to do things it could only a year or two ago. It’s not a hunch anymore, it’s real. And there are moments when I panic. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Is it in my best interest to grow old all alone back here in the woods? Is it even safe?

Yesterday my car got a flat tire in the driveway. And, for the first time in my adult life, I could not change it myself. My bad back and arthritic hands just couldn’t come through for me. Man, did I feel vulnerable. And old. As I sat there in my car, wondering what to do next, it hit me. Maybe this wasn’t where I should be anymore. Maybe.

My house is covered in branches, decaying leaves and moss, the gutters full. There’s a gaping hole in my garage roof with a swath of soffit hanging down like a giant loose tooth. Downed trees and huge branches lay all across my now-growing lawn. The iron hand rails down my kitchen steps have corroded so badly that they’re only held on by two remaining bolts. I haven’t got the physical stamina to tackle any of it, certainly not enough money to have someone else take care of things. And it worries me. The older I get, the more it does. Ten years ago – even just five years ago, I would’ve thrown my back into it and done my best to patch the roof myself. I would’ve tied the trees to my car and dragged them to a great pile and burned them. I had the energy and strength to imagine a solution and employ it. Now my back just won’t let me, my fingers can’t clutch tools very well anymore, and I hesitate to even go up a ladder. A fall is a potential disaster at my age.

At 59, all of these things are becoming clear to me.

In a few weeks’ time The Studio will be on the market, and the wait will begin. Who will buy the place since all the local arts venues have passed on it? Likely it will become a private residence. And that is not something I ever truly considered. It kinda changes everything. The anchor gets lighter, the future less certain.

When I first began renovations on The Studio in the summer after dad died, a contractor had spoken to me from the place of a concerned father; was this really my dream? he had asked me. Or was I embarking on this huge undertaking out of guilt, or a feeling of obligation to my late father’s legacy? I had thanked him for his candid offerings but assured him that I knew what I was doing, that it was a vision that I alone held. He probably knew as well as I did that I was headed down a long and expensive road, and that I honestly had no idea what I was doing. And while I can say that The Studio did in fact produce hundreds of beautiful moments and brought pleasure and delight to many over the following ten years – I cannot say that it ever paid for itself. To the contrary, it’s been through the gifts of kind people, including my mom, that the place ever broke even. But I have no regrets. I’ve learned a lot, and many wonderful things were born of the place.

But it’s so hard to let it go.

In the end, what in hell does anything matter but the moments themselves? Memories are important, as too are goals, but they all culminate in the single witness to a moment. This is something I’ve pondered for ages. I’m still in futile pursuit of truly getting it, but at least these days I understand a little bit better. And it’s what helps me to have no regrets; I have gratefully born witness to every moment of my “new” life here in Greenfield, from farming to academic to professional endeavors. Even as I felt the suffocating effects of my despondency, poverty and loneliness – even then I knew enough to hold a deep appreciation for the idyllic place in which we lived, the gifts of experiences that we’d been given, and the treasured way in which my young son and I lived together in partnership and solidarity.

Now that era has ended. What exactly comes next? Judging from the way my older students hold firm the handrails as they descend my kitchen steps, what comes next does not seem all that appealing.

I’ve joined the Y; I’ve had my first interactions with people other than students and store clerks since before the pandemic, and that restores hope in my heart. And over the past few months I’ve written around two dozen songs – something I’d never done until this year of my life. I am in possession of a Dot card and ready for networking; the links to my material are all easy to find. I’ve begun the hustle to get some work this summer. I’m still without a duo partner, but as with everything else in my life, it seems I’ll have to go that path alone. I also make myself attend open mics regularly – despite the drudgery that is inherent in that process – and so I get the opportunity to try out my new songs in front of people. It’s not a bad place to be in my life, if only perhaps a bit dull and without compensation.

My sixties await, and despite some genetic predisposition towards longevity in my family, Facebook and the virtual world beyond remind me that I could go any day; the prospect of dying feels close by and very real. I’m satisfied with my son and his future success, that storyline is resolved. And as soon as I can archive all my material in such a way that it can be accessed by folks after I’m gone, then I can rest easy. Resolution is what I’m after these days. (That, and a tiny, vain effort to remain present in this world in some form after I depart.)

Greenfield is a sweet place in which to live. Is not the name itself so very poetic?

Once, when driving back from the highway department where we’d helped ourselves to a bucket of free road salt, Elihu remarked through a laugh that he loved living in a town where a “five-gallon bucket was a unit of measure”. Elihu grew up knowing that the local good old boys would always come through to help us prime a pump or fix a fence; we always knew that our neighbors were our extended family. It was fundamental to the person my son has grown up to be. So I thank Greenfield, my neighbors – and my mother, too, for our success in this corner of the world.

Now the landscape here is different. The young children on our stretch of the road are quickly growing up; baby faces have matured through adolescence. No longer do tiny kids ride their bikes down the long gravel driveway to visit the big boy and his chickens. There is now a huge house in the field between us and the girls across the road. No longer do mother and child wander over a meadow to visit neighbors. There are hardly any meadows left. Even our dear woodcocks have moved away and taken up residence down the hill. Several new houses have been built, and ancient, historic homes have been razed. Greenfield looks so different now. I can see a suburb evolving. I can even imagine stoplights taking the place of lazy, country intersections.

Greenfield is changing swiftly, and I feel myself to be changing along with it. A new landscape is emerging for us both.

Post Script:

Elihu will turn 20 on April 28th, and I will turn 60 on May 7th. On my birthday I will drive my son to JFK airport, where he will embark on a three-month adventure living in Tianjin, China. He is now fluent and literate in four languages, conversant in three more, and he wishes to refine and improve his Mandarin as can only be done through an immersive experience. He has a huge adventure yet before him; he will be navigating through a country where all signs are in Chinese characters – no Roman letters to assist. There will be no safety net. And he’s a person of low vision, so that factors in, too. But I don’t worry. In fact, I’m thrilled and excited for all that awaits him.

Who knew that life in a tiny, country cottage would produce such a brave and adventurous young man? Who knew that this unexpected change in our life path would turn out so beautifully? To quote a line from a Richard Scarry book that I said to my son throughout his childhood: “This was the best mistake ever.” Truly, it was.

Visit Elizabeth’s website here. Visit Elizabeth’s Instagram here.

Visit Elihu’s personal Instagram here. Visit Elihu’s tuba Instagram here.

Showtime

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This is the final month of my fifties; one month from today I will turn 60.

Recently I’ve been feeling the sting of reality in a much fiercer way, and so I set about to express my thoughts differently than I ever had before. While not writing here for this dear blog, instead I’ve spent the past two months doing something entirely new to me: I have been writing songs. Just a month ago I would’ve been hard pressed to fill a set, now I have two generous sets of songs ready to go. Not all are keepers, but some, I believe, are pretty good.

Flushed with the excitement of creating songs that actually worked – songs that came from a genuine place of inspiration and most of which held together pretty well – I experienced a few moments of idealistic bliss, thinking that perhaps I should try to market these little gems. Some are quite formulaic, and they hit all the marks – with a little production could easily be imagined as the bed behind an introspective montage of some cookie-cutter Netflix drama… But that idea has been quickly dispensed with, at least for now, as the initial thrill has died down and the real world has imposed itself upon my starry-eyed visions. It’s ok. It certainly won’t stop me from writing. I have found that writing songs is a thrill and a challenge, it’s something I now love. And at this point in my life, I can draw from a deep well of experience.

A few posts ago I complained about the open mic scene in this town, and I’d hatched an idea to write songs in order to grab the attention of a lost and disconnected audience. The scene fairly infuriated me; the same songs that they played, the out of tune guitars and the warbling, pitchy vocals zapped me of my patience. More accurately all of this caused me to become infuriated with my own situation, as just a year ago this time it had seemed I’d had a foothold up and out of this place, but it was not to be. This past year I’ve been just sick that my prospects had vanished, and that I was left to languish in a town without any musical peers. The only solution, it seemed, was to write my own shit. So that’s what I did.

I’m not a fan of most disclaimers before a performance – but in this case I feel I must make it clear that by no means do I presume myself to be a poet. In some ways I suppose I’m creating a type of poetry that exists in tandem with music, but in that the words and music often arrive together, I don’t feel it’s the same. Nor do I think that my stuff is particularly enlightened or exceptional. But on the whole, I’m happy with these first exploratory months into this new mode of expression. It’s what makes me feel that this whole crappy detour of a year hasn’t been entirely for naught.

My health still has me in a near-constant state of despondency. I’m not far away from the heaviest weight of my life and due to ongoing troubles with my herniated discs, I just can’t move the way I used to. My mood continues to swing from the darkest downs to infrequent glimmers of hope and promise. The songwriting is another tool to help distract me from the day-to-day disappointments of what is my current life. But there is a small light driving me forward; I’ve been given several solo shows in which to perform my material, starting with a modest guest spot this weekend to a set as a featured artist at the local and iconic Caffe Lena. It’s definitely something. I don’t look forward to dealing with the panic attacks and mind games of anxiety that come with that attention, but the clock is ticking down now, and I don’t have time to fuck around. This seems a rare opportunity for a fresh start.

Turning 60 is much different than embarking on any decade that’s come before. It truly feels like it’s now or never. The stakes feel higher, the outcomes are so much dearer. In this life of mine I’m hoping for a few more moments of the connection and satisfaction that performing brings. And with any luck the journey will bring me into the sphere of good musicians once again, and before the final curtain there’ll be a few more shows to play.

Toro

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I’m a Taurus by birth, and sometimes by my actions too. And occasionally I stumble into a china shop.

While in my private life I struggle to find the energy and motivation to get even the most basic things done, when I get out into the world, my energy and behavior can be a bit explosive. In high school it made me seem quirky and strange. As an adult, it’s a mixed bag. My personable nature can go a long way towards making people feel witnessed, it can brighten a stranger’s day, and it can assist when getting tasks done. But sometimes, it gets me into trouble. I can hurt folks, and I can go too far. A product of both my energy and my insecurity combined. When I’m feeling of little value (which, regrettably, is much of the time), I end up overselling myself, and in blind pursuit of recognition or a feeling of camaraderie, I lose my sensitivity to other people. Most times I can read the energy of a room – but when I’m in the vortex of my own tumult, I can’t.

When, oh when will I grow up?

The other day I dropped in on the hair salon that I’ve gone to since I moved here almost fifteen years ago. I do this every now and then; I’ll grab a salad across the street and pass a half hour in between appointments, chatting with the women there. It’s got a great, relaxed vibe, and the company there takes the place of the in-person friendships which are almost entirely absent from my current life. The salon chair has a special role in a person’s life; there is an intimacy one shares with the hairdresser, and the chat that passes back and forth brings a certain comfort.

Until I bluster in, that is.

Last week, I popped by for a visit, and settled into a chair with my lunch. I proceeded to share my story to the patrons as if it were a pre-vetted group of my closest friends. This has gotten me into bad situations in the past, and although I thought I’d begun to make some progress on that front, that day, apparently, I had taken a few steps back. I went too far. I wasn’t sensitive to the way in which I’d tossed someone’s opinion aside. And I went on to enthusiastically discuss a topic that was important to me, not realizing how it was affecting a patron. I remember sensing something to have been off, but I didn’t slow down enough to take it in. The women were polite, and the smiles continued. But still, I missed some shit I shouldn’t have. I’m disappointed in myself to think that I still don’t have a handle on it.

My mother is certainly not responsible for my behavior, but I can see where many of my tendencies come from. Mom had a knee replacement three weeks ago (and she is doing very well, I’m happy to report), and while visiting her at the rehab facility and subsequently driving her to appointments, I’ve had the chance to watch her interact with a fair amount of people. It’s been insightful. I’ve been able to spot a few of my own characteristics within her actions, some good, some not. She’s very personable, and she stands out; people like her. She is not the ball of energy that I am, and she is a consummate rule-follower, which I am not. She wears a default smile all the time when with strangers (I find this inauthentic and annoying) while I am almost always guilty of bitchy resting face. But aside from all of this, I noticed something in particular which intrigued me: my mother talks over people, and rushes in to finish their sentences. She also adds so much more story than her audience really wants. Crap. I believe myself to have inherited these very habits.

“Elizabeth,” my friend Debi had said to me over three decades ago, “you are an interrupter.” I remember distinctly the darkly lit Italian restaurant, the red and white checked tablecloth. I can see her finger, as she, in frustration, pointed it directly at me. Many times through the years I’ve played that moment in my mind, and used it to shush myself, to hold myself back from excitedly adding more than anyone needed to hear. But sometimes I forget, or I just don’t realize I’m doing it again.

There are also times when I’m exceedingly aware of the energy around me. When I’m listening to a friend, when I’m sitting with an elderly person. And, there are times when my confidence and sensitivity are purely second nature. When I’m singing, when I’m playing music. I’ve made a concerted effort to bring this awareness with me in my everyday affairs, but sometimes I lose it. Like the other day. I was dismissive and hurtful and hadn’t realized it.

Kudos to an individual who was present for bringing it to my attention.

I received a stinging text message from this person – it seemed to come out of left field. But she was still bothered by the experience, so the situation needed to be remedied. It reminded me that I’d grown lax again, and I needed to be humble and learn from it. The situation was definitely not pleasant to face, and my system was flushed with adrenaline when it was all over. But I held out, continuing the conversation to the point where I could get some insight. To a place where I could learn from my actions and stood to improve my sensitivity and behavior. I believe things were left in the best way possible. I can’t know entirely, but I at least I apologized. All I can do for now.

Personally and professionally, the last twelve months have been a doozy of a year, from extreme highs to brutal lows. Over the past year I’ve lost a good portion of my hair due to stress. I’ve dropped the fitness gains I’d made earlier in the year, plus I suffered a couple of herniated discs which continue to make movement tricky. To top things off, I went up a couple of dress sizes due to a lot of self-soothing through food and booze (a mechanism very familiar to me). But I’m trying to get it together again. I am.

Before I exit this plane, I’d like to become a bit wiser in my actions and behavior, and healthier in my lifestyle. And I readily admit to losing patience with my mother; I’m a long way off from my goals on that front. It’s the supreme test of my abilities to apply discretion with her, to let things just be and choose to say less than I’d like – a test which I almost always fail. But every day is another opportunity to work on it. Definitely not there yet, but I’m putting forth some effort.

Where I choose not to say less is in my writings. I can’t. I won’t be here a whole lot longer in the grand scheme of things, and what I have to express might resonate with someone, sometime. For this reason – the present and future connections and assurances I might provide for others – I can’t censor myself too rigorously. There is possible insight to share, and I have nothing to lose – as long as I’m not combative or hurtful to others. I will be careful not to betray anyone here. After some less-than-favorable reactions to a few pieces I wrote this past year, I have learned not to cite anyone in such a way that they can be recognized. So, progress made I suppose.

The bull is back in the pen for now.

Chicago Tribune Commentary Elizabeth Conant: Lin Brehmer reminded me that it’s great to be alive – and a life well-lived is a triumph

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Photo credit: E. Jason Wambsgans

The past few months have been hard on me and my peers. Our world is changing.

We’ve begun to lose iconic people who’ve always seemed to exist as permanent landmarks in our lives and culture, such as WXRT-FM 93.1 host Lin Brehmer. It’s easy to forget that these people are human and that they’re aging too.

I’m at the doorstep of 60, and in the past year or two, I’ve become acutely aware that this is an age at which maladies appear more frequently and morbid diagnoses begin to arrive. Even in my early and mid-50s, I retained that feeling of “everyone but me” regarding aging and disease — an attitude that prevails among the young and early middle-agers. It’s the sense that one has not arrived yet, that age and its concerns are still far off.

In our modern world, we are very keen on extending life, and we have come to expect longevity. It’s easy to forget that just a generation or two ago, if you made it to 60, that was an acceptable outcome. If you died in your 70s, it wasn’t considered a breach of cosmic justice. It was simply your time. Your glorious turn on the planet in corporeal form was up.

But these days, we fight as hard as we can to survive into years of frailty — and then we consider it a victory. I disagree.

I assert that a life well-lived is a victory, no matter what age it finds completion. It may be heart-wrenching to see someone depart, and it might not seem fair, but a life fully expressed is not a failure or a tragedy. Rather, it is a good outcome.

Last year, I went back to my hometown of Chicago for a visit. It was a thrilling week for me, densely packed with reunions. There was music and food, and there were all those streets and neighborhoods that I knew so well, the sight of which made me profoundly happy. WXRT provided the soundtrack.

The DJs’ voices on WXRT were as familiar and comforting to me as those of old friends. After all, these on-air personalities had been with me for years. It felt as if no time had passed since I’d moved away, more than a decade ago. Lin accompanied me as I drove through the city. I can’t hope to describe how full this made my heart. The sound of his voice made me feel loved; it restored my spirit. It made me feel like I really had returned home. I experienced a moment of true bliss that day.

Lin died on Sunday.

I knew he’d left the air in the summer, but I’d also heard that he had returned this past fall. Somehow, I just figured he’d beat the cancer, and he was back; all was as it should be. The news of his death was shocking to me. Understandable but still shocking. And as I began to think more critically about it, I realized that my generation was at the beginning of its downslope.

It’s begun. The time of goodbyes.

Death is nothing new, and our grief is not exceptional. But what does make the experience far different at this time in history is that we are all experiencing these losses in real time and on a global scale because of the internet. For us, there is no softening of the message through the buffer of time. Maybe it’s a good thing because it is certainly cathartic to be able to share with people all around the world our grief and our memories. I’d even say it’s a kind of privilege. But it’s certainly a new one.

For the most part, a death after 60 productive years on the planet is not a tragedy. It’s a sorrow that will subside as time passes. And as we in the 50-plus segment of the population can easily attest, time passes much more quickly as one ages.

Ten years ago feels like the year before last. Last year feels like just last week. Our end dates are fast approaching. But let us not be made too weary by this; all of us have done the best we can, and we will continue to enjoy the ride as best we’re able. Let’s thank our missing comrades for all they added to our lives, let’s smile at the memories and let’s let them go with a wave and a kiss.

Thank you, Lin, for reminding us that it really is great to be alive.

Elizabeth Conant is a musician and writer originally from Chicago and now living in Saratoga Springs, New York. She played keyboards for more than a decade in the Chicago-based indie pop band the Aluminum Group. She blogs at TheHillhouseinGreenfield.com.

This is a commentary published on January 24th, 2023, in the Chicago Tribune.

It is an edited version of the original post entitled “Liz’s Bin”.

Liz’s Bin

Posted in An Ongoing Journal...4 Comments

The past few months have been hard on me and my peers. Our world is changing.

We’ve begun to lose iconic individuals who’ve always seemed to exist as permanent landmarks in our lives and culture. It’s easy to forget that they’re human, and that they’re aging too. And since many were there to pave the way for us, they may even be a bit older than we are; it stands to reason they might leave first.

I’m at the doorstep of 60, and in the past year or two I’ve become acutely aware that this is an age at which maladies appear more frequently, and morbid diagnoses begin to arrive. Even in my early and mid-fifties I retained that feeling of “everyone but me” regarding aging and disease. The attitude which prevails among the young and early middle-agers. The sense that one has not arrived yet, that age and its concerns are still far-off. For me personally, the new awareness and perspective began as a murmuring in my 58th year and moved in for good sometime over the past twelve months.

I now take nothing for granted. Blood pressure meds are part of my daily ritual now, and due to a family history of colon cancer, I have pre-cancerous polyps snipped off every few years. I’m thankful all is well so far, but it’s real now. It’s here.

In our modern world we are very keen on extending life, and we have come to expect longevity. It’s easy to forget that just a generation or two ago, if you made it to 60, that was an acceptable outcome. If you died in your 70s, it wasn’t considered a breach of cosmic justice. It was simply your time. Your glorious turn on the planet in corporeal form was up. But these days, we fight as hard as we can to survive into years of frailty – and then we consider it a victory. I disagree.

I assert that a life well-lived is a victory, at no matter what age it finds completion. It may be heart wrenching to see someone depart, it might not seem fair, and it may hurt, but a life fully expressed is not a failure or a tragedy. Rather, it should be considered a good outcome. I’d like to think that if my life ended tomorrow, it would be seen as a minor success. I’ve been kind to people (however I fully admit to also being neglectful and selfish at times) and I’ve tried my very best to be loving and kind wherever I go. That’s about the best I can do.

Last year I went back to my hometown of Chicago for a visit. It was a thrilling week for me, densely packed with reunions. There was music and food, and there were all those streets and neighborhoods which I knew so well, the sight of which made me profoundly happy. Two radio stations provided the soundtrack; WDCB (which at my arrival was serendipitously playing a track by friend and jazz guitarist Dave Stryker, who I had also coincidentally just seen play the night before at Caffe Lena in my current hometown of Saratoga Springs, NY) and then – there was WXRT.

The DJ’s voices on WXRT were as familiar and comforting to me as old friends. Because they truly were old friends. These on-air personalities had been with me all throughout my musical growing up. And it was kind of remarkable that they were still on the air. It felt as if I hadn’t actually been gone for a decade and a half. Lin Brehmer accompanied me as I drove north on 294. I can’t hope to describe how full this made my heart. It restored my life energy; the sound of his voice made me feel loved and ready to keep going. It made me feel like I really had returned home. I experienced a moment of true bliss that day.

Lin died yesterday.

I knew he’d left the air last spring, but I’d also heard that he had returned this past fall. Somehow I’d just figured he’d won – he had beat the cancer, and he was back; all was as it should be. Yesterday, the news of his death was shocking to me. Understandable, but still… And as I began to think more critically about it, I realized that my generation was at the beginning of its downslope.

It’s begun. The time of goodbyes.

Death is nothing new, and our grief is not exceptional. But what does make the experience far different at this time in history is that we are all experiencing these losses in real time, and on a global scale. For us, there is no softening of the message through the buffer of time. Maybe it’s a good thing, because it is certainly cathartic to be able to share with people all around the world, in real time, our grief and our memories. I’d even say it’s a kind of privilege. But it’s certainly a new one.

I can recall so many times when my parents would hear about the death of a friend or colleague and express their regrets with a tired resignation. It was as if the time in between the death and receipt of the news served to dull the sting. I can’t really know; my parents were of that stoic generation that thought it bad form to express their true feelings. What I remember is the pause that would follow after my father would peruse the New York Times obituaries and read a name aloud. A beat of silence would follow, and then there would be the recollections, and finally my mother would say “Oh, that’s too bad”, and on they would go.

It feels as if I too am adopting my parents’ approach to the news of a death. It hurts, and yet it seems to hurt far less now than if these people would have died a decade or more earlier. At this point in the game my peers have all left legacies of some sort. There may be regrets – I should think every life has a few – but for the most part, a death after sixty productive years on the planet is not a travesty. It’s a sorrow that will subside as time passes. And as we of the fifty-plus segment of the population can easily attest, time passes much more quickly as one ages. Our pain will soon become less acute.

Ten years ago feels like the year before last. Last year feels like just last week. You know. It’s gone in a blink. Our end dates are fast-approaching. But let us not be made too weary by this; all of us have done the best we can, and we will continue to enjoy the ride as best we’re able. Let’s thank our missing comrades for all they added to our lives, let’s smile at the memories, and let’s let them go with a wave and a kiss.

Thank you, Lin, for reminding us that “It’s so fucking great to be alive”.

Postscript thoughts:

Men, please don’t put off having a prostate exam. My own father had prostate cancer, but thanks to early detection, he went on to live another two decades. I know that men aren’t as familiar with routine physical exams as women, so if you haven’t been to a doctor for a health check in a long time, please break this trend and make an appointment.

~~~

Funny that after all these years I never knew that Lin got his start in commercial radio here in upstate New York and was known as “the Reverend of Rock and Roll” at WQBK, in Albany. We traded home states, but in the reverse. (But like Lin, I will always be a Cubs fan.)

~~~

Here are a few songs played on WXRT today as Lin’s colleagues remembered his life through stories and music:

“Chicago” by Sufjan Stevens.

“No Hard Feelings” by the Avett Brothers.

“Keep Me In Your Heart” by Warren Zevon (it was his last song).

“All Things Must Pass” by George Harrison.

“I’ll Take You There” by Chicago’s own Mavis Staples.

~~~

Today’s Sun-Times piece on the life and death of Chicago’s WXRT radio host, Lin Brehmer.

~~~

The title of this post was inspired by Lin’s Bin.

The first track Lin played on his commercial radio debut at WQBX in Albany (January 20th, 1977) was the Beatles “Within You, Without You”. He explained that he had chosen it because he had always felt that “life flowed within you – but mostly without you”.

Horizon Bound

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These days I think my job to be mainly that of a writer. An unpaid writer without benefit of professional editing, but a writer no less. A ruminator. A distiller of my many experiences into bite-sized takeaways that don’t require a lot of time invested to offer a return of insight.

But what exactly makes me qualified to offer such wisdom? A fuck ton of life experiences. I’ve packed a lot into my 59 years. And at the rate that people of a similar age are dying these days, I kinda feel the clock ticking. I feel a strong urge to share my shit. If the material isn’t of interest to you, that’s fine. But if you do resonate with my writing, then I can call this a job well done.

And, having long considered myself to be a “jack of all, master of none”, this is not a small achievement. (My son, were he to read this, would likely correct me; strangely, the original meaning of that phrase was just the opposite. But let’s not go down that rabbit hole for the moment.)

What is unresolved in my life? What would I like to see completed in a flat-out winning scenario? These are the questions I am posing to myself these days, with the sorrowful knowledge that much of it will likely not come to fruition. So I gotta make hay while the sun shines. (That expression leaves no room for misinterpretation.) I shall lower my expectations and find myself much happier at the results.

When I see middle-aged or older folks go through harrowing medical journeys in order to stay alive, I often wonder why? I’m honestly not sure I’d take any drastic measures to keep going at this point, should I become afflicted with a life-threatening disease. Or – perhaps my innate human drive for survival might kick in and supersede my current feelings on the matter. I just don’t know. But what I do know is that my son is launched. My most important job has been done. Were I to die in the near future, he might grieve my departure, but I can tell you it wouldn’t slow him down one bit. He’s sailing under full power now.

At this point in my life, I’m just trying to stay alive longer than my tenacious mother. After that, I dunno. I can honestly say that I am not entirely thrilled about being here. The things I’d always valued are increasingly elusive. I realize this may sound terribly aloof. Because, my goodness, don’t I have it all? I’m surrounded by nature, my home is beautiful (and paid for) and I’m safe. But my life is flat, flat, flat. Very little joy these days. As things stand now, there is no more playing music with other humans. No more in-person camaraderie, no more athletic success (much less prowess), and no more promise of aesthetic satisfaction regarding my aging body. And certainly, no more sex. Naw. That ship left the dock back in Milwaukee.

This next stage of the game is going to require a whole new approach. Every decade or so it seems life requires an overhaul, and now seems to be that time of reckoning. I’m not feeling quite up to it, but like a runner with her eye on the finish line, I’m motivated to find that second wind and blow this thing out to the best of my waning abilities.

Stay with me as I wrestle publicly with my grumbling alter ego. Let’s see if I can’t offer you a few more interesting tidbits before I reach my ambit.

See you next year, friends.