Tag: single mother

Under Over

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This past week I’ve been feeling off. Down, dark and scared of the other shoe dropping at any time. Some moments it’s really terrifying. So I try to soothe myself by eating with a vengeance, or drinking as much as as college boy. I stay busy. I keep myself distracted. I pass the days waiting for the nights, when I take my faithful Ambien and check out. But even then my dreams won’t let me be. My dream life is rich and busy, and most mornings I wake without a sense of having truly rested.

Something has felt different for me over these past few months. Something is nagging at me, and it’s been growing and growing. I’m trying to identify it. So many stressors. Hard to know what’s at the root of my ill ease. It’s a cocktail of many things I suppose.

If there’s any wisdom that I have gained from 62 years on this planet, it’s this: take your hunches – your instincts, your tiny afterthoughts, your conscience (my son and I have always called this the “God voice”), magnify it ten times – and then do what it tells you. Hear the message, heed the message. (Most of the time it’s been a really useful tool for life. I recommend it.)

My thoughts have been consumed lately by one nagging thought, but I can’t tell if it’s the neurosis of an aging woman or an insight from the ether. The voice keeps saying “You just need to outlive your mother”. My mother is ticking along at 90, with only a few short-term memory slips. On the whole, she’s very much who she’s always been. Me, I kinda feel like I’m waiting for some major health shit of my own to hit the fan. So many of my peers have suffered awful and unanticipated health crises; why not me too? I’m concerned; as the cotter pin holding that’s holding the whole Conant project together, I can’t leave until stuff gets sorted.

I’ve had a couple of strange feelings in my body, one being a persistent pain which travels around the upper left quadrant of my chest, sometimes under the breast, sometimes in the armpit, sometimes like a line up the left side of my neck. I’ve thoroughly employed my “God voice” technique here – asking for an assortment of tests over the past year, yet at this point my doc and I are basically giving up the search and are attributing it to a referred pain from a decades-old broken shoulder. But I’m not convinced. What to do? I think I’ve done all I can. Or have I?

I’ve been working on the physical crap inside my house for a while now with some good progress. Elihu’s big move to Brooklyn this summer gave a huge push to our household’s downsizing. He wanted to move out with all of his worldly possessions taking up just the space of two large rolling suitcases. And he did it, purging the rest. Inspired by his progress, I took up the charge and continued the project after he moved out. But still. So much stuff.

Just how is the garage always full after ten years of garage sales? The way in which we Westerners amass physical clutter is astounding.

My mother has begun to let go of the idea that I will eagerly inherit her house and its contents. There was a time, a few years ago, when she’d thought that naturally I would move into her house after she was gone. When I pointed out to her that I already had a house – and that I, as an aging empty-nester would have no need of a large, four bedroom home, she looked genuinely surprised. She’d just assumed I’d want all this stuff. It’s been a journey, but I think she’s finally coming to understand that her Baccarat wedding crystal and her well-worn Limoges china are of little value in today’s world. It’s sad. It is. But it’s the reality of this physical plane. Dust to dust. Only so many museums. Only so much room for our stuff.

As a creative, I naturally have notebooks upon notebooks (let’s not even consider the hundreds of cassette tapes of demos, rehearsals and ideas). Even though the reality is that I will not revisit and reanimate 99% of those ideas, I still wish to keep all of these for my lifetime as space allows. They’re only of interest – and comfort – to me. Once I am gone, into the fire they can go.

What I do wish gone is all the extra paper that I’ve hung onto. Programs, set lists, photos, ticket stubs, doodles, letters, diaries and so on. Things essentially only meaningful to my mother, my son and me. I so wish that I could indiscriminately grab piles and throw them onto the fire pit! But then I see a hand written letter from me to my parents when I was a child at camp, and I think “Oh! Elihu and his children will get such a kick out of this one day!” Myself, I find letters and notes of a personal and intimate nature of interest. But will my grandchildren find this ephemera fascinating or irrelevant? Will I even have grandchildren?

I admit it, I’m stuck. Taking a breather here. The burn pile will grow. I just need a minute.

The Studio is finally on the market after two years of town bureaucracy and lots of other back-and-forth legal nonsense. I emailed the architect to tell him the news, and it bounced back. A quick search informed me that he had died a year ago. He was an old family friend, so this was sad news. But it also seemed to confirm that things were truly in cosmic order. The time had come to let the place go.

My brother Andrew is another item on the unresolved list.

Just last night as my mother and I tried to discuss the topic, I saw that not only were we not any further along in the process of discussing his caretaking, but we had backslid. My mother and those of her generation have a hard time getting honest about personal things, and having a mentally unwell child is, in my mother’s eyes, a failure on her part and a point of shame. So how does she deal with this? Denial. Lack of willingness to see the problem. You can’t solve a problem if you don’t think you have one!

My brother is as hoarder whose house is something you’d have to see to truly understand. He cannot throw things out, whether mementos or garbage. There is no distinction to him. He is a deeply intelligent person, but he has been consumed by his disease for most of his life. He hasn’t had a job in over 40 years. Has no dentist, no doctor. He isn’t even in the system; his dysfunction is such that he cannot follow through on any administrative endeavor. One year I got him food stamps, but he never followed through to keep them. He lives with an enormous inguinal hernia hanging over his crotch. He’s an alcoholic and does nothing but sit in front of the TV at mom’s. She gives him pocket money (his only income). She gives him her car to drive. She makes him dinner every night, fretting aloud about what he will and won’t eat, and what she’s got planned. Some nights he goes on a bender and never shows. My mother waits it out with no idea if he’s alive or dead (Andrew won’t answer his phone). Many times through the years I’ve had to peek through the window panes into his shack to see if he’s ok. But if he saw me doing this, he might fly into a rage, so there’s some risk involved. My brother showers, eats and watches TV at her place, then retreats to a tiny, dilapidated farmhouse at the foot of the driveway. Dysfunction of the highest order.

At present, everything is propped up and working. Mom has a reason to live; she has been a consummate chef and feeder of people for her whole life. She has someone to check in on her, take out the garbage and collect the mail. Andrew has dinner, booze, entertainment and shelter. They enjoy a symbiotic relationship. No need to dismantle things. But one day, shit’s gonna fall. And inevitably, it’s gonna fall on me. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. But I’ll feel better once we finalize the will and get Andrew’s future care plan laid out. If mom won’t believe me that it’s a major concern, she’ll believe our family attorney. It’s on the immediate to-do list. Maybe my heart will lighten a little when we get our plans defined on paper. Maybe.

When I opened my eyes this morning, I turned on my phone and began the search for some dopamine to start my day.

Instead, I found a New Yorker article about a man my age of Jamaican descent who’d lived nearly his whole life here in this country and who had been deported by ICE to a maximum security prison in Eswatini. The agents employed needless violence.

The next story I read was authored by a mother who had lost her only two children. Both sons as teens committed suicide. They were deeply intelligent, insightful young men. But they were driven to such despair by either this world, their temperaments – or both – that they took their own lives.

Following in my feed came a post by a friend whose only child was killed a year and a half ago. She and I were both single mothers of only boys, both jazz singers, both from Chicago. I’d always felt a bond of some sort with her, and her loss has become a part of my life in some small way. I can’t help but feel a mixture of heartbreak and guilt when I think of her situation – and fear for the safety of my own son. But my reality is still comfortable. Hers is not.

This whole fucking world is brutal. And I am feeling it. I’ve got it good, I know I do, but I’m feeling the weight. The Trump era has ratcheted up the stress level on this planet for sure. It’s definitely playing a part in my unease. I long for freedom, peace and comfort for every last one of my fellow humans, but it seems further off now than ever before.

I’m under the spell of overwhelm.

Gedenken

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I’m fairly sure the Germans have a word for it. They are good at unapologetically mashing together a bunch of words, thereby making a whole new word which more perfectly describes some phenomenon. At the window just now, looking out down the hill and over the tops of the trees, a feeling washed over me. I lingered in it, trying to feel it as deeply as I could. Trying to understand it as best I could.

I was kneeling on the floor by the Christmas tree, looking out of the picture window in the living room. The sun was bright, and it highlighted the cobwebs and the dirt on the window frame. The grass outside was resting in matted clumps; I haven’t had the money to cut the lawn in years. These days the property reeks of neglect. The decaying wooden window frame and the cracked pane of glass itself, held together only by a sheet of tinted cling film confirm that too. On the sill there rests an antique glass bottle with a garden of moss and tiny ferns inside. Years ago, Elihu and I came upon it on a winter walk in the woods. It is as captivating and mysterious now as it was when we found it. It’s been there for ten years, a tiny universe within a jar, continuing somehow to live. Getting dustier and dustier.

As I sat there, I was caught up in this feeling of acute sadness mixed with a sense of expansiveness. It’s hard to convey. One moment without end. Loneliness and dust and sunshine and silence. But I recognized this feeling; I’ve had it in lots of places. What is it about? It’s not quite sorrow, it’s not entirely unpleasant, but it hurts just a bit to feel. It’s a certain sort of aching. It feels as if I’m missing things – and it feels as if I’m also resigning myself to that missing. 

My house – at least the living room – is a very cozy place, especially so at this time of year, with the tree and candlelight and lovely decorations, and it has an effect on everyone who visits. When they enter the big room, people sometimes sigh or pause for a moment. Some even open their mouths. The living room here is a beautiful country sanctuary at Christmastime. And for the most part it does the job; it helps me to forget how lonely my life is, it helps me to forget that my best days are now most likely in the past, it helps me to forget that one of the major remaining events in my life will be my mother’s death. For a few weeks of the year, it is a very pretty distraction. And while I’m grateful for this space, sometimes it makes the contrast between the now and the never-to-be even harsher. I’m missing something, I just know it. But I just don’t know what that is.

For me, writing helps soothe the aching. It helps me to believe that all this longing-for-what-I-don’t-know isn’t for naught. You know, the old writer’s idea that every experience, no matter how crappy, is worth it simply for the sake of the story. So. Here’s the story – only it has no ending.

Even when I box up all those family treasures in a few weeks, turning the corner into red and white Valentine’s Day decorations, the ache won’t dull. In fact, it will become more acute as I wrap the ornaments and strip the mantle of the pine boughs. There will come again that one afternoon of the heavy heart. There will be the empty room, and that annual moment of reflection. It happened again, and it has gone again. I’ll stand there, hands on my hips, taking in the room now vacant of decorations, with pine needles and ornament hooks scattered across the floor, the only apparent color being the brown of the couch.

I wonder at all my fellow western-world humans who, like me, haul out the decorations each year, install them and then pack them away. They too must have those moments of rumination – coming upon old family trinkets and remembering again the stories that go with them – they too, like me, must feel a sad sort of “what now?” feeling in their stomachs when faced with an empty room afterward. It’s not just me, I know it. Anything I can possibly think or feel is certainly not novel or new.

As my son grew up, he spent all of his Christmases, save one, with his father. Alone in the house on those Christmas mornings, I’d look out the big window at the hills in the distance and wonder at the scenes going on at that very moment. Exhausted parents, shrieking and delighted children, living rooms covered in a sea of spent wrapping paper. I remembered how it was when I was young. And it was all going on right at that moment – somewhere out there. On the one year that I did have Elihu with me, it was so cold and lonely (literally, we were low on heating oil) that he actually cried. On Christmas.

The sun is now on the other side of the house, and it helps tone down the ache. Not sure why. Maybe it feels closer to evening – helped by daylight savings time – and that makes me feel like I’m closer to the nightly respite of sleep. Only that’s not really true. I have mixes to listen to and corresponding notes to make. I have original songs I need to revisit and relearn. I have a few shows to book and folks to call. There’s a slow leak in my tub drain and the basement sump pumps are in constant use, so I have to find a plumber. And I will make myself get to the gym. I’ve been good about that recently, no sense losing my momentum. No students today; I’ve been given the gift of time, and I’m going to use it well.

Day after tomorrow, Elihu and I are taking the train to Manhattan. We’re going to stay for two days with some dear friends for a final time in their Soho residence. They are retiring soon and moving to far-off Utah. This brings to a close a thirty-plus year history of visits. Ages ago, when I was a touring musician and performing in the city, I’d sleep on their floor. We remained friends, and long after the bands were over and after I’d begun the single mom chapter, my son and I continued to visit. After Elihu returned from a trip to Europe a few summers ago, he found his way to their home first, before heading back up north. There will be no more landing pad in NYC now, but that’s a minor loss compared to the fact that I can’t be sure when we’ll see our old friends again. I am going to savor this final visit. By Christmas, just five days hence, Elihu will be in the Midwest with his father, and I’ll be back here, alone in my cottage in the woods.

Before I know it, this eagerly anticipated visit will become just another memory. It’s enough to inspire a wistful sigh. I suffer a tiny heartbreak at the thought. But that’s the way it works here on this mortal plane. Expectancy, experience, memory.

The passage of time – or rather the unceasing forward movement of it – can be a blessing or a curse. If one is in a bleak situation – in jail, in a hospital bed, in a nursing home – passing time is itself a challenge. When I broke my neck as a young adult, I spent two months in a bed, unable to move. The wait was grueling. The boredom was maddening. Time positively dragged. These days, while I’m not entirely thrilled about being here, I do realize I’m in a unique and valuable spot. I am filling the space with songwriting and performing, which is good. At the moment, there’s no end in sight to the material; there’s always something waiting to be created. And if I apply a small bit of discipline, it means that I not only have something to show for my time, but it also passes more quickly – in fact I reside in a timeless place when I’m creating. I like that.

The feeling that inspired this writing has dulled now, and now the urgency of my to-do list has begun to tug at me. The out-of-time thing has once again taken place during this writing session, and now I see that it’s later than I’d realized. Or later than I hadn’t realized.

My takeaway from this on-paper rumination is simply that which all of us know, but seldom consider too deeply. Most of our lives are simply made up of memories. And with every forthcoming moment we have the opportunity to make another one. Memories are the only things during our lifetimes – be they accurate or self-tailored to suit our needs – that remain.

So, it’s time now for me to loosen my chair-stiffened joints and get going. There’s much yet to remember ahead.

Ambiverse

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Yesterday, my 88-year-old mother and a friend drove north into the Adirondacks. Essentially, it was a leaf-peeping trip, but along the way they visited the lakeside house where my father’s family had summered from the nineteen-aughts through the sixties. It was the house where I was conceived in August of 1962.

About a decade ago, I took mom and Elihu up to the Severance home. No one was in the main house, so I searched the grounds for the owners and found them having a large family gathering in a screened outbuilding. The owner happily gave us a relaxed tour of the house. He enjoyed the stories that mom recounted from more than a half-century ago. I enjoyed seeing the rooms and matching them up with my father’s stories. I spent a moment at the top of the stairs, imagining that young boy, long past his bedtime, sitting there listening to the eruptions of grownups’ laughter as they sat downstairs playing pinochle. But my biggest curiosity was to see the room. Easy enough, it was at the top of the stairs. A cozy bedroom under the gable that looked out and over that grand, descending lawn and the lake beyond.

When my mother and son and I stood in the room together, I felt the closure and completion I’d been after. My existence had begun in that room, and, as a result, Elihu’s life had begun there, too.

My son’s life had also begun in a lakeside retreat, one with a similar view (Torno, Italy). Like this place, the site of Elihu’s conception was also high above the nearby water, and on the south side of the lake. If you were to examine a map of each location, they look incredibly similar. My son and I both began our lives lakeside, looking out to the mountains beyond. This is something I very much like to know. Somehow, it grounds me.

A massive new house now sits too close to the driveway, and a few small outbuildings appear to be missing. The house itself has been painted, it is no longer pale yellow, and the shutters are now blue. The immense tree in the turnaround of the driveway has been taken down. It seems there has always been a tree there; it does make perfect sense. But new money doesn’t always abide by those classic rules of balance and aesthetics. No matter, it’s under the care of someone with resources. That’s the key to a building’s survival. The place may be changed in many ways, but it still exists. The phantoms of the home as it once was still hug the new periwinkle shutters and bare front yard. My father still lives there as a five-year-old boy bringing barn kittens into the house. The Confederate General and his family still live there, slightly dazed at their new Northern environs, but finding enjoyment in the cool waters and pine-scented woods, nonetheless.

These days I feel I am living in an in-between time. Things are this – and at the same time they are also that. My son is in college, closer to graduation than high school, yet he is close by, and I am able to see him fairly regularly. My mother, although visibly aging into frailty, is still living her own life, driving to the Adirondacks, regularly reading The New Yorker and feeding her outdoor wildlife friends each day. I myself look young enough to fool people about my age but am old enough to feel the oncoming infirmities. This and that. Both, at the same time.

Sometimes I feel as if I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or at least the next chapter to identify itself. Lest I sound as if I’m complaining, I wish to say that I am not. I am simply feeling a little off – a little out of my body, a little unsure as to what it is that I am. My roles have always been fairly tidily described. But now, these days? I’m kind of in a nether role. I’m not a caregiver anymore. Not for the kid, and as it stands right now, not yet for mom. I’m in a rare place, this I know. And so I’m filling the space. And filling it easily.

I’ve begun to write songs. And while it may seem a mere hobby – on paper it would satisfy that definition – it feels to be more than that. A tiny spark ignites inside my chest when I envision writing songs and performing them. And then, if I imagine a band behind me, it gets so exciting that I don’t dare explore it further. It would be too big a disappointment if I began to care too much about that particular outcome, never to see it happen. But then again, why the hell shouldn’t I dream? Is that not what leads to creation? Have I not played behind dozens of other people who themselves had the conviction of self to assemble a band in support of their own vision?

It appears to be time for me to step up. And I am in the process of doing so. Step by step I am beginning to ascend. Or, as a band leader once put it to me, I am, to use his words, beginning to “ramp up”.

About a year and a half ago I had a rapturous musical experience which was followed quickly by an excruciatingly difficult period. I lost almost half of my hair due to the stress that it caused. I stopped working out. I started eating and drinking way too much. Then I suffered a back injury. After six months of brutal despair, I knew only I could get myself to a better place. And so I began to work my way up in the only way I saw available to me. I began attending open mics in search of a new musical tribe.

The open mics were challenging to endure, especially in the beginning. Long slogs through dozens of bad musicians playing done-to-death songs on out-of-tune guitars. Yet I tenaciously continued to attend open mics everywhere – even in Chicago – fascinated by the hard and earnest work that so many people were putting into their performances, even if, at the end of the day, they were far from performance-ready. I also went to the open mics on the hunt for the gems – the sleepers, those magic songwriters who stop by to work out a new idea, or who are there to fill a night because they’re passing through town… (That’s a bit of a fairytale outcome I now realize – although at the Caffe Lena open mic I actually have heard and become acquainted with a few “real” artists.) On the whole, there were no sleepers. The “real” musicians and songwriters were out playing real shows.

Tiring though they may be, the open mics have been a very important step in my ascent. They give me an opportunity to test this new skill of songwriting. They provide me with a goal. They provide me with feedback and input. They have opened doors for me to do my first solo shows. They have been a necessary step on the staircase ahead of me. They are a great tool, to be sure.

The first song I wrote was born of sheer need. I was going mad. Bereft and alone, without son, prospects or piano students, I pulled my keyboard outside into the sunshine on a late summer day because I had nothing to lose and no reason not to. Moved by the dire situations of two dear friends, I began an aural contemplation on the whys of it all. And by the end of the day, I’d written my first song.

It feels a bit naïve to actually call myself a songwriter at this point in my evolution – I only have about 30 songs completed and ready to perform – but I feel as if it’s a really perfect tool of expression for all the interior stuff that’s going on in my head right now, and it tugs at me daily. And at this time in my life, when I am not distinctly in my middle-aged years nor yet in my truly aged years, it seems to be a sweet spot for this new adventure to take place. I can still carry and setup my gear, I’m able to offer enough interesting covers to fill some single jobs, and I can perform a few sets of well-written original songs decorated with plenty of charming backstories.

Panic attacks still tap me on the shoulder and threaten to reappear, but I’m working on it. Silencing the self-sabotaging monkey which pulls me out of that place where I need to be in order to perform well should be handled by now, but it is not. I’m working on it. It is getting better. And I also gotta slow the fuck down when I talk. These things I know, and I practice every chance I get. I’m deeply appreciative of all the time I have to write and all of the opportunities I have to perform – and to work on telling that monkey who’s boss. I’m trying my very best to ramp it up.

I’m no longer at the bottom (although I’m not even sure if I know where the top is). What I do know is that I’m somewhere in the middle of it all right now. I’m en route.

And even though I’m not “there” yet (and I do fully realize that “there” may well simply be right here and now), for the sake of naming things in a physical world where we organize our lives through time and accomplishments, let’s just say that I am definitely on my way to a new place.

For now, I reside in the ambiverse.

To my friends near and far, you can watch my upcoming solo set at Caffe Lena (here in Saratoga Springs, New York) through their live stream. The show is on Sunday, October 29th at 7 pm. I’m up first, so tune in close to 7 EST for my set. Link here.

You can read a sampling of my song lyrics here.

Project

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When my son Elihu was four months old I had a thought. Quite literally, it went like this: Omg, I can’t wait til this project is done. Kinda feels like it should be wrapping soon. The way I felt about my child was, internally, the same way I had felt about making a record. You write, arrange, record, and then it’s done. When I realized that my child was not a recording, I was flushed with an urgent sense of panic. Wait – what? When exactly was this ending? Wait – this was not a project! Holy crap! This was forever! This was an actual human that I was in charge of! I was deeply surprised at myself. How was it that I’d never thought this through? I was filled with fear of the most urgent kind.

(When I was in labor – at home in my bed – and my doula was trying to help me, she dangled a onesie in front of me as some sort of enticement to hang in there until the reward came. I remember thinking – what in hell is that for? Lady, that piece of laundry means nothing to me. Don’t distract me (what was I doing again and why?) and my god, please let’s get this thing over already.)

Clearly, I have never been much of a planner.

Now, twenty years later, thinking back on my panic at the realization that my infant son was a life-changer and dependent entirely upon me, I realize from a new perspective that the project has been satisfactorily concluded, and finally, the post-release tour has ended. The content is good, and it’ll have a long and robust shelf life. But the job is done, and I’m free to move on to other projects – smaller ones with less on the line. Things I can see begun and done without waiting two decades. It’s a good outcome, and I’m deeply grateful for the freedom to embark on new endeavors. Even so, it makes me wistful, living here in this empty house with the uncut grass waving all around it… But I’m too tired to become teary and nostalgic and wish it otherwise; I’m feeling my age and thinking to myself that I made it just under the wire.

Sometimes I cannot believe that I got us both through that passage. And I can tell you, it was a hell of a lot more work than making an album.

My energy has been drawn elsewhere the past few months, as evidenced by the longest-ever pause in between essays across the twelve-year history of The Hillhouse. It strikes me a bit incongruous that at a time when I’m not on the hook for driving a kid to and from school, when I don’t have to make meals every day or shuttle tubas and airplanes around – a time when I’m merely accountable to a handful of piano students – I find myself feeling short of the time I need to get my creative projects completed. When I was working and being a mother, I was still able to find the time to write essays, and yet now, somehow, I’m just not. Only so much time, only so much energy. I’m using both those commodities in other ways now.

It may surprise people to learn this, but I have never written songs before this year of my life. Took me sixty years to get around to it. I’m good at creating parts – good at arrangements and decision making, but I’ve never been the one doing the creating. I’ve always been a sideman. And now finding myself twenty years on the other side of my life’s main project, I’m learning that the whole world works differently than it used to. Plus I’m not young and cute. Yeah, that stuff has currency. Things really do change.

Songwriting is interesting to me; it serves primarily as therapy (why is it that the folks who really could use therapy the most are the least able to afford it?) and it also creates something which I began to feel a need for as I entered the open mic culture for the very first time: new material that hadn’t been done to death. You could say I began songwriting out of necessity. And now that I’ve started – I can’t stop. It’s crazy to me. I’ve become a prisoner to this process now. Ideas come to me in the middle of the night – usually my most productive time is from 5 am til 10 am – and I’ll sing them into my voice memo. Then the work then begins as I cull and piece together ideas. It becomes sort of like a puzzle. And until now, I’ve always hated puzzles. But this challenge is different – it demands resolution. But man, the content is often primitive, and I can’t help but be self-conscious about the quality. Some songs come together quite nicely, but most of them don’t. It was so much easier all these years to offer my opinion about content someone else had already slaved over. Oy. Who knew? Not me. Like I said, I’m not always good about thinking things through.

There’s a new adventure emerging now. I’ve already done a few solo shows and have a few more on the books. I’ll be participating in a local songwriters showcase soon at Caffe Lena, here in Saratoga, and that’s kind of a nice way to mark my first calendar year of writing songs. I’m realistic enough to know that I’m not an established artist, nor will I be at this point, and that in this culture I’d be hard pressed to carve out a living room tour even if I were, but it’s not a deterrent. In fact, it’s sort of freed me up not to worry too much about the outcome and instead enjoy these new experiences.

I admit to feeling a good deal of conflict about spending so much time on something that will never net a penny, but I’ll just have to sort that out myself (it is therapy, after all). I hadn’t seen it coming, but it’s here. Songwriting appears to be my new project. And I’m not even sure when it’s gonna end. But some things you just can’t plan.

And now for the diary portion of this post:

Elihu is doing exceedingly well, living and working (with a salary and not a word of English known by a single coworker) in Tianjin, China. He has traveled a lot – covering a country as large as the US, visiting different climates and navigating through a variety of regional languages and hard-to-understand accents. I am SO grateful for the blessed satellites which allow us to enjoy two-hour long conversations which cost us nothing. This is a far cry from the days when a mother saw her child off on a ship never to know of their whereabouts or well-being. I am deeply satisfied in Elihu’s personal successes. I am happy that he still feels me to be a friend, that we can cover such a wide range of subjects in our conversations, that we two can find the same things funny, the same things fascinating.

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.

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.

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.

Ubiquitous Elephant

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Woman ill in hospital bed

I can’t leave this unspoken anymore. There is an elephant in the room. There is an elephant in every room, and not a one of us is brave enough to admit it out loud lest we stir the pot, finding ourselves at the receiving end of a whole lot of grief.

Medical procedures and pharmaceuticals extend our lives far into the frailest years, and, more often than not, this creates a lousy situation. In short: people these days are living too long. A long life is not a victory if it is an unpleasant one. Consequently, I believe that every adult should have the right to choose a humane and legal death.

My mother is living on and on in the isolation of her house. Granted, she’s got the deer and the birds and the woods outside her windows, she’s got her British murder mysteries, and all of the 70s and 80s sitcom reruns to entertain her. She’s got The New Yorker to read (and read them through she does!), she’s got her drink every evening, and she’s still able to prepare food (she knocked out Thanksgiving dinner again this year, a true feat in that her right knee is now quite literally bone on bone). But she’s not able to come and go and she did only months ago. She is stuck inside her house. It can’t be easy. But there’s no reason to highlight this. She knows. And she has adapted. People are really good at that.

Now she is faced with a knee replacement at the age of 88. (She has postponed dealing with this for a long time. That’s understandable, but at this point there’s no avoiding it.) It surely stands that a woman of her determination will come through it ok, but if not, then what? And, even if things do go well – what then? We need to make some modifications to her house. She knows this, and we discuss some of the logistics with success. But when I move too fast, offering to do something for her, she gets angry, and says I’m taking over her life. And she has drawn the line at care. Somehow, this future scenario does not involve any outside party coming in to assist her with things. She fights me on this, saying I write her off as incapable. Quite the contrary; I know that she is clever and resourceful, capable of surprising things in light of her limitations, but she is human, after all – and post-op, she will need care, one way or another.

I believe that the thing she’s battling with is not so much the details themselves, or that I am taking over, but rather it’s the beast that is pushing its way into the room which frightens her. I wish we could just acknowledge the creature, and make plans accordingly. It might make the beast less menacing.

Mom and Elihu both know my feelings about death. I believe that in a fully realized and modern society, a lucid adult should be afforded a medically efficacious, humane and affordable – and legal – death at the time of their choosing. Both Elihu and my mother warn that I might not avail myself of such a service when I become old and frail. They posit that when I am a very old woman, I might not wish for the end. Yes! I completely agree! How can I know possibly know how I’d feel in that moment? I can’t. But what I do know is that I want the option of a humane – and legal – exit.

I’m gonna stop you right now if you’re tempted to spout the reactionary “It’s a slippery slope” response. While the more litigious or philosophical among you may have specific points to support your case, I believe that for the majority of people, that response is born of fear. The religious among you will also take issue with this for your own reasons. This is where we will likely part ways; I do not believe a loving god would deny its children this most tender of mercies. I won’t be getting into the arguments here and now, but rest assured I’ve studied all manner of debates on the subject, a multitude of points and counterpoints.

I’ve been thinking about death for years. I’ve seen many videos of people’s final moments (a profoundly generous gift on the part of both the people themselves and their families). I’ve read many books, and listened to numerous talks on the subject. What helps give me the courage of conviction to write candidly about this is the number of people with whom I’ve discussed the topic, and the number of people who have admitted to me, in the safety of a private conversation, that they heartily agree. People should be able to choose their exits.

As a musician I work a fair amount in nursing homes, and I see the saddest outcomes for individuals who’ve lived the most glorious lives. After I finish performing, I always make informal rounds, visiting folks who I see to be awake and who welcome my brief intrusion. I’ve been playing at one facility for nearly seven years, and, sadly, some of the residents are still there… They are bedbound, screamed at all day by TVs, blaring at top volume. It is cacophonous. It is inhumane. It is terrifying.

I can recall meeting a fellow who had taught chemistry at Columbia University; he spoke about his life as a child in a small town in Finland. He recalled the fish that his mother had made, and told me how much he missed that. He told me about the research of which he was a part, he told me of his three children whom he’d raised in the city, now all gone. Dead. He and his wife had long since divorced. Was she dead too? He didn’t know. He was well-spoken and brightly recalled his memories which I followed with great interest. And yet here he was, bedbound, soiling himself and unable to move, dependent upon an over-worked and underpaid aid to restore his comfort, to say nothing of the basic dignity he’d lost in the whole mess. Bells and blinking red lights were always going off in the hallways; it was impossible for the staff to keep up with the need.

(We have all visited a relative in one of these places. And if you find the higher end joints a little off-putting, just imagine this bottom-of-the-barrel venue. No one in his right mind would ever send his mother to such a place. It goes without saying no one would wish this outcome for themselves, either.)

After I have finished with my visits, I invariably end up speaking to the staff. At the conclusion of our conversations, I always pose the ultimate question: If you could choose to end your life in a safe and legal manner, thereby eliminating the need for living in such a place, would you? And of the dozens of people whom I’ve informally polled, not one has ever answered differently. Every single person has said that they would choose a humane, safe and legal death over life in such an institution.

My mother comes from a generation which was raised to live in hardship without complaint. (Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.) This generation was encouraged to be self-sufficient and responsible; living in this manner is often a point of pride. It makes sense then that her needing or asking for help feels wrong. Perhaps like a tiny failure. Hard wiring is not easy to undo. So at the end of her eighth decade, it’s a bit late to expect that my mother will change her way of thinking. I get it. Additionally, a woman like her who’s done an expert job at hosting hundreds of people over the years might have a hard time letting go of that authority and yielding up the most basic tasks to another person. It might also be that accepting help means that true frailty is not far behind. And, however heartbreaking it may be to conceive, that really is the truth.

Yes, I can understand that it’s got to be frightening to be in her shoes. I think we’re all scared of finding ourselves at that place in our lives. And yet so few of us have the courage to admit our fears aloud. Most of us keep silent; we stifle our gripes and concerns. We suck it up. And I really wish we didn’t.

It’s my hope that people all across this earth can learn how to speak candidly and caringly about the end which awaits us all (as well as the feelings of uncertainty that precede our final days). My mother and many of her generation may find self-advocated death an abominable thing – and certainly my mother is likely not the type to avail herself of such a service were it even available – yet I still assert that a humane and swift death needs to be the legal right of every rational, healthy adult.

Would you have surgery without anesthesia? No, you would not. Would you have your dog suffer? No, you would not. You would use medical tools to minimize or eliminate suffering. If you’re a doctor, you will likely cite the “do no harm” bit of your professional oath to me in protest. Well, I believe that preventing someone from obtaining a wished-for, safe and legal death at the conclusion of a long life is doing harm. Quality over quantity. It’s simply one step beyond a DNR. But, as things stand in December of 2022 here in the US, it’s one hell of a big step.

The elephant will seem far less menacing when we can get her fed and comfortable. She may even turn out to be a welcomed guest. But we’ll never know until we can all agree that she’s sitting right here in the room with us.

Drawing by Jules Bradbury

To see further examples of the work of Jules Bradbury, find her on Instagram: @no_still_life

or visit her website: www.no-still-life.com

Falling Reign

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This past summer has been an emotionally difficult season for me.

At a time when most of my peers have been wrapping up their careers, and at a time when I had fancied myself to be starting my career anew, I instead discovered my future to have fallen far short of that expectation. This has consumed me, and I have been stuck. And when my son returned from his trip to Europe late this summer, he knew it too, straight away.

“You are becoming happy in your sadness” he’d said after I’d admitted that I was still bereft at the end of my recent musical employment. “You are becoming happy to be sad. It’s not acceptable. You’re letting this become your story. ” He paused, and then he let a few minutes of dark highway pass, as if for effect. “Do not let this become your story.”

Although whatever had happened was in the past, he could tell that I was still dwelling on it – nay, simmering in it. What was gone – and how it had all gone down – was becoming toxic to me. “You have to move on” Elihu said, as we drove home in the inky darkness. It stung to hear him so critical, so serious. He was hardly my kid anymore; he was a peer offering sage advice. My mental health depended upon it, and we both knew it. I’d been able to push it away during the lonely summer months, as I’d had no one to counter my mood, no one to discuss it with. But he was home, and now I had the outside perspective I’d needed. Yeah. Time to move on. But to what?

________________________________________________

With no musical comrades, no peers and no dear friends in physical proximity, “moving on” seems truly daunting. Elihu has been my closest companion for the past nineteen years, and it is a tall order to replace such an insightful and considerate person with whom I can discuss things. I do have a few close friends – my oldest bestie from high school having recently become a cherished part of my life – but she is far away and has her own life to contend with. And in the end, no one can really take the place of my son. People warn against considering your child to be a peer, but I dunno. I have often said jokingly that I gave birth to a 50-year-old man. Not so funny as it is true.

Music seems to be fading into my past, and it breaks my heart fiercely. I have new projects – unrelated to music – which I should really dive into, but I flounder. I try to convince myself that I need new headshots, new recordings. That I need to write songs. Sure, I can always do that, but is it truly necessary at this point? Who fucking cares? I’ve worked mostly as a sideman; at 59 it’s a little late to pretend I’m a solo artist. So what is it that will earn me money, give me a sense of joy, self-respect and fulfillment? Is music even my path anymore? I am beginning to doubt it. I mourn the richness of my musical past and miss the brief taste of how it felt to make music again with other humans (that gave me joy, albeit short-lived). For now, I suppose it’ll have to go on hold while I discover what the next practical move should be.

What that will be, I don’t know. I’m grateful for my spiral-bound pads, filled with writing, lyrics, poems and project to-do lists, yet following through and assembling any of it into meaningful content seems as challenging as losing these goddam extra pounds I’ve solidly re-packed onto my frame over a season of self-soothing and grief.

__________________________________________________

Last night, a violent late-summer storm pelted the house with sheets of rain and gusts of wind that knocked out power and toppled trees. I stood in the screen porch, feeling fully the might of the wind and water, and I asked the force to please wash me free of the past; wash me clean that I might start over again, from this moment forward…

It’s been a few weeks now since Elihu has returned to campus. He is an autonomous individual. I am no longer a full-time parent. The Queen has died, lain in state, and been buried. Things are different now. It’s time for the new order.

I suppose it’s time for Elizabeth 2.0 now. And when I figure out what form that will take, I promise you’ll be the first to know.

Turn of a Dime on “Liz Sings 70s”, my YouTube channel

hillhousewoman on Instagram

The Heart of a Moth

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If one were to believe in karma, or in a certain “this-therefore-that” way of thinking, a belief that each event is the product of other events, all serving to bring forth one particular outcome, then things would be easier to justify, easier to handle emotionally. But these days I’m not too confident about it.

Once I was. And it was a less stressful way to live. Everything happens for a reason. Easy.

Sure, one can see in hindsight with some clarity how things build upon each other. Some consequences are so clearly related to things that came before that one can’t help but make the association. And there are those segments of our lives when things just seem so perfectly scripted that it’s hard to believe it wasn’t all “meant to be”, or that we might not have just earned the perfect outcomes through a withdrawal from some sort of energetic bank account.

I’m a mass of conflict these days. Just a few months ago I could not have felt stronger, more hopeful. Great things were within my grasp – I’d say I even sat squarely in the middle of some moments of pure perfection. Things I’d dreamed of for ages had finally come to fruition. And somehow it felt as if I’d earned all of it through my years of sacrifice and toil and hope… The world owed me some good shit now, cuz I’d been through a lot, and I certainly deserved it. Right?

A lot of people deserve good things. And a lot of people will never, ever receive these things. Most people on the planet will live fairly crappy lives, ones in which merely existing is the only goal, lives in which nothing out of the ordinary will manifest. But what on earth have they done to deserve these horrible fates? Not a bloody thing. Not in this life, at any rate.

Where is the parity? There seems to be none.

Not to say that there isn’t a direct correlation between hard work and its reward. Of course that can exist. But to me, that kind of opportunity seems a luxury. For me personally, I feel that reward doesn’t always seem to be a reliable outcome of hard work. Cuz I work a shit ton. I toil, I clean, I sort, put away, file, fix, tend, check in on, shop, cook, learn the tunes, learn the gear, teach the students. All for what ends up being not enough income to pay bills in anything like the real world. Were it not for the home provided for me by my mother (the Hillhouse itself), I truly would be out on the streets. And at 59, that’s a crappy thing to know about myself. All this work, just to exist in another person’s dwelling, and without the means to sustain myself in the most primitive way. Demoralizing.

Yes, I might see my reward as existing in my son. He is undoubtedly a remarkable human, and he’s destined for great things, he’s happy and launched. Yes, I’ve enjoyed a life densely packed with experiences that most folks don’t have.

But here I am on the other side, with the remainder of my life an expanse of nothingness. No rewards in view, no destinations. Got some ideas, a couple of projects I’d like to accomplish, idealized visions of what I’d like to write or perform. But any one thing on the list seems to require an investment of energy which I just can’t seem to summon anymore – or money, which I simply don’t have. My gear is old, my clothes are outdated, and the blog isn’t free. So what now? As I see it, it’s a game of waiting and simply slogging it out, hoping for a few more good moments before the finish line.

My inner conflict is further stoked by a secret disdain which I feel for some people. Shameful, but true. Look at those ham hock arms, listen to the horrible way in which they speak to their children, look at that antagonizing shit they post across their vehicles… And then I realize that if there were to be a catastrophic event and we were all thrust together, I would see their humanity first. My heart would soften when our eyes met… I would see the fragile person within. I would feel forgiveness, and I would understand that their life was a product of the situation into which they were born. And I wouldn’t care that they still believed in Trump. (Many of my friends would disagree with me on this quite fervently, but I say humans are humans at the end of the day. I don’t have to hang out with them, but I don’t have to hate them either.) How dare I feel so superior?

As I was standing at the window just now, looking out at the tall weeds surrounding the vacant chicken coop with a deep feeling of despair growing inside, my eyes landed on a moth, clinging to the wall. That creature and I both have hearts, I thought. A vague feeling of hope overcame me. For just a second, I felt some relief. It felt as if we were all in this together, every creature on this globe. Good outcomes and bad outcomes, we all experienced them. Moths too. Imagine flying towards a thing that your whole essence tells you to be the ultimate goal, only to find your life extinguished? That doesn’t seem fair, to be sure.

“Who ever told you life was fair?” my mother would often say to us as children. I could never form a response, shamed, scolded and immature as I was back then, but now I understand what I had been thinking but couldn’t articulate. “Everyone”. From the time we’re tiny, we’re told to play fair. What a strange incongruity. Play fair, nothing in life is fair. I suppose that both are true.

We earthly creatures are all linked in some way, sharing this bizarre brew of the tragic and the magic. And strange as is may seem, in view of the unfavorable odds with which we are presented, it appears that each one of us somehow manages to maintain a tiny feeling of hope. Each one of us has a heart which continues to beat.

Even a moth.