Five Geese Flying

Stay with me, I have a story. It’s a long one. 

I keep a little goose Beanie Baby in my car. That’s where it lives. Always.  When geese fly overhead I say, “My kin.” I stop what I am doing and I watch them. I fly with them. A suspended moment spent with something that has no sense of the linear. It is time out of time. Growing up in the bitter cold and the long winters of northern Minnesota, the return of the geese was always, and still is, a cause for celebration. A sign of the big spring. Life’s spring. A metaphor for the relief that comes after hardship, like…a rainbow. I moved to New York in 1983, but the geese came with me and this metaphor is one of my life’s guideposts. 

My grandmother Adeline Ellen Flaskerud Haverland, passed away in 1996 at the age of 90. A child of pioneers, the wife of Adolph, and mother to seven girls and two boys in depression era northern Minnesota. The backbone of my mother’s family. It is hard to describe the spectrum of this family in a paragraph, especially my seven aunts (eight if you include the oldest cousin Loretta, who was basically another aunt). My heroes, my role models, mothers to my best friends. Big hearted, intelligent, independent, opinionated and a little crazy, outgoing women. 

Big family gatherings were routine at our house. Aunts, uncles, cousins, Grandma, Grandpa, friends, 15, 20, 30 people all talking at once while my dad, my brother, myself, and cousin Loretta conducted a sing-a-long. There was always a ton of food, a ton of beer, rum for cousin Retta and Aunt Ann, some kind of competition, and a controversy or two. Walking into my parents dining room on these nights was overwhelming and yet incredibly inviting. You were sent into a loud, smart, smokey, boozy, musical, quirky world of loving souls having a good time and enjoying each other’s company. It was, and still is, the most cherished part of my upbringing. 

However, in May of 1996, all of these folks lost their matriarch. There would be a family gathering, including all the accoutrements, the joy and music, and it would be fun, but with a filter of grief. The ominous specter of mourning coupled with the anticipated party, the cigarettes, the noise, and the tears put me in a state of edgy anticipation, like it would be too much. But this thinking made me feel selfish in the face of my grandmother’s passing. It’s not about me. I put it aside and got ready for the trip.

At that time, my daughter Cecelia was 6 years old. I would be traveling alone for this trip and I had never been away from her overnight. Again, it felt self centered having anxiety over something other than my grandma’s passing and again, I stored it away. She and her dad would be just fine. So, I reserved my flight to Minnesota. I packed with anticipation of mosquitos and temperatures anywhere from 20 to 80 degrees, and I tried to get a good night’s sleep. The morning came, I got up, I got ready, and I called a cab rather than go through a dozen goodbyes before the flight. Again, more guilty anxiety. But, it turned out to be a beautiful morning and Cecelia, her dad, and I waited for the cab on the front porch. I was holding her, hugging her, walking around, and generally fighting off all the concern. About two minutes before the cab arrived, five geese approached the southern horizon and flew right over us, honking and moving north. Cecelia got really exited and exclaimed, “Look Mommy! It’s geese! They are going to fly with you to Minnesota! Look!” As she was pointing at the five geese, the cab turned the corner towards our house. I held her and said, in my best patronizing Mommy voice, “Of course they are! Isn’t that awesome? And look at that, there’s my cab, just in time to go with the geese!” I hugged her, kissed her, passed her off to my husband, hugged him, and jumped into the cab. We waved at each other, blew kisses, and I was off to the Albany airport. I pondered the geese for a moment. An odd number of geese in flight is not the norm. Not unusual, but not what you usually see. I though about Cecelia’s prediction, smiled, but returned to the nervous anticipation – did I save my flight info, did I pack the right stuff, will Cecelia miss me? My mom’s mother has died.  

The flight to Minnesota was uneventful, mostly me just ruminating and driving strangers nuts with my need to chit chat. I arrived at the Minneapolis airport, rented a car, grabbed a few sodas and headed north. 190 miles. 

I turned on the radio and after an hour or so of flipping from channel to channel, the Prairie Home Companion Joke Show mercifully appeared. I gave a nod of thanks to the universe, turned off my brain, and made my way up highway 169 to the big swamp that is Northern Minnesota. Somewhere along the way my mom called, worried about me, just needing some confirmation, wishing I was already there. I could only imagine what she was going through. Being in charge and being in such grief. My mom. The family super hero. 

My home town is on the Mississippi River where she bends east to west to meet her source about 60 miles up the road. There are two ways to arrive at my childhood home; drive through town, cross the Mississippi and head out of town, or take the back way past the Isaac Walton park, cross the Mississippi and head on up the hill. Normally, I would take the back way and stop at the park to say hello to the river I spent my childhood on, put my hands in her waters, but I kept thinking of my mother’s phone call. I needed to get to the house as quickly as I could. Never mind the river. But as I approached my hometown, I felt a tug. A need to stop and ground myself for a moment before facing the crowd of benevolent chaos. Five extra minutes would be OK. I took the back road to the Isaac Walton Park. I pulled in, got out of the car and walked directly to the river and stood there, breathing the air like it was medicine. I stooped down and put my hands in the river, closed my eyes, and connected to whatever force it is that kept me grounded as a kid. I heard geese calling in the distance and looked up to see a small gaggle approaching the river. They circled and landed right before my eyes, about 50 feet in from of me. There were five of them. Five geese. All the way from New York. Cecelia was right. The geese had followed me. I jumped up from the water and stood there, astonished, counting and recounting the geese. They just sat there, quietly floating. Looking at me, smugly, as if to say,” I told you so.” 

My grandmother’s funeral was a blessed event. Beautiful, irreverent, full of every piece of discomfort I had anticipated, with my mother being the brave person that she was. But it was OK. I had witnessed a cosmic coincidence, a sign. I received a hug from my grandma. From God. The geese, my perennial sign of hope. And now, something so very profound. I have always been blessed with road signs. I have always looked for road signs. For love. It has never stopped me from failure, never stopped me from embarrassment, or from falling. They just simply show up and say, “You are loved, get up.” And that, my friends, is everything.  

Here’s my song:

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Mirrors

Personal boundaries are a funny thing. When you have been raised to believe that you have to love everybody, even if you don’t like them, it gets a bit confusing, especially when you are a kid. And while I do believe that love does indeed conquer all, it takes time. Loving everyone doesn’t mean you take abuse. It means you are fair, but that’s a hard concept when you are young and that confusion seeps into adulthood. It’s one thing to help folks out, it’s another to bring it into your personal life via a relationship. The enablers, the fixers. It’s a big club, and I’m in good company. You can alter your behavior, you can fix yourself, but you are who you are. That’s why we have “mirrors” in our lives. Thoughts and actions that make our healthy parts say, ”Hey, knock it off!” For me, it’s songwriting, my daughter, my close friends, my family, and a partner with the same needs that sees what is going on and gives me a loving nudge. 

There is no end to growing up. You get older, you think you’re smarter, until something life altering happens and you become a teenager again, or at least a shade of that person. You don’t see it at first. You live your life, you go about your routines, but you forget to check in with yourself because, well, you’re hurting. You convince yourself that you are fine because it takes time to heal. You go about your routines, you go to work, you take care of the things you need to take care of, but not yourself. Instead of healing, you are simply carrying on. You become numb. Fortunately, after some level of humiliation or self awareness, the numbness reveals itself, your friends and your partner get involved and your mirrors start talking. You listen. You get back on your path. You close some doors, you open others, and you get back to the work of being a healthy human. You realize that your psyche is, indeed, a holy place. 

Here’s my song. Go be good to yourself.

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Take to the Sky

I have a story, stay with me. This one’s really personal. 

In 2015 I stepped off my path. I lost my way. I was in my fifth year of separation from my ex husband, I had moved three times in those five years and was needing to move again. Also in those five years, I had recorded an album, written and produced a musical, written and performed a song cycle, all while gigging most weekends and teaching and being part of a very active and competitive music/theater department. The 20 years prior to that had been the slow accumulation of loss. My dad, my mom, my aunt, my cousin, friends, more family members. And, of course, I was parenting, spousing, housekeeping, building a career, building gigs, being human. I was physically and emotionally exhausted, but I was OK. I was working it out. That was, until my Aunt Ann and Uncle Rich were killed in a car accident in November of 2015. My other mom and dad. My beloved friends. My phone calls 3 or 4 times a week. My anchors after my mom passed. I simply lost it. Not in any obvious way, initially. It took a year to show itself, but it was real. I started going out instead of performing. I kept writing, but I was numb. I met someone who was newly divorced and ready to party. And so that’s what I did. That’s what we did, for two years. Until he wouldn’t stop drinking and became abusive, and I knew that it was time to go. I woke up, and started listening to myself again. I wrote this song as if I was standing outside myself and giving me a lecture. My mom giving me a lecture. Putting what I needed to hear in black and white. Seeing myself in writing. It was my wakeup call. I wrote it, recorded it, and kept playing it on my phone to keep me motivated. And it worked. And that, was that. I walked away and stepped back on my path. Or, maybe that was my path. 

Anyway, here’s my song:

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Funk 23

May 6, 2023

It’s been a grey week. It’s been a grey spring. A grey, dreary season following a grey, dreary winter. A long stretch of lousy weather, ideal conditions for some over thinking, and a good time for a funk. A time to open the Book of Slights and remember every stupid thing you’ve ever said or done, a time to not like the mirror, to crave what isn’t in the cupboard, or in the closet, or nearby anywhere. I embraced the lack of whatever and searched for distractions and numbness, or dumbness. Mostly, just a nap and time in my own skin. Something to take me down long enough to realize how unflattering self pity is. Of course, after a certain age, lying down for extended periods of time presents its own set of issues, as it reveals every small ache and pain your body is settling into, and that in itself is enough to send you back into the pit.

Thankfully, it is a brilliant morning. Cold and crisp with the spring sun determined in its intent to foster growth. The lawn needs mowing, the weeds are getting tall, but the multitudes of tiny wild flowers are also in abundance in the fields of grass. And of course, the dandelions. I walked out to my car early this morning and found a rusty, bent up nail in the driveway. I picked it up and my thought was, “This is the first blessing of the day.” I am staying with that paradigm. In some imagined universe there is a place with no shadows, but I live here. In this universe, there is a reason beauty and love stand out, and there is no escaping physics, or the need for rain. But right now, the sun is shining and after all of this cloudiness, it sure feels good. 

Here is my song:

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Jesus of the Telephone Pole

Jesus of the Telephone Pole

     There used to be an abandoned telephone pole in my back yard in Schenectady. The window on the upstairs south wall framed the aged post and it’s crossbeam quite nicely. It had no hardware or old porcelain insulators, no evidence of a past life beyond nail holes. Wildflowers grew around the base and behind it was a tangle of overgrowth that was decorated with the occasional bloom of a too tall lilac bush. Where there once were cables, vines grew, and trees of all varieties stood behind it. The whole rustic scene, in all its unkempt splendor, looked like a shrine. A giant old rugged cross in the back yard. Jesus of the Telephone Pole.

     I mean no disrespect, just a little irreverence. Jesus and I are OK. While it is hard to get too far from Christian symbology in this culture, I find it in my line of vision at the most curious of times. When it comes to religious dogma, I was not raised by absolutists. I was raised Unitarian. Thursday nights were Sunday school, Sundays I went to everyone else’s church. So, there was the Golden Rule and then there was everything else, from everywhere else. Jesus was not my mother’s lord, but the Sermon on the Mount was a consistent source of discussion and the moral footprints we walked in. The Bible sat openly on the coffee table, along with a book on world religions, and there was a dark and abstract rendering of the crucifixion on the mantle over the fireplace. A local artist created the painting and my mother believed it to be good art. The many bookshelves in the house contained the writings of the world’s great philosophers and thinkers, artists, and poets. My mother was a secular humanist consumed with a passion for the existential. A paradox in most peoples’ eyes, and it was hard to ignore Jesus of the Mantle. My mother moved the painting from the mantle to her bedroom eventually, saying it was too dark for most folks, but that was years after I left home. When she passed away, I tried selling it in her estate sale, but there were no offers. It ended up following me back to New York because, well, you can’t leave Jesus at the Goodwill. The painting found its unceremonious home in a handy tie bag in the back of a closet for a year or two. It was resurrected recently, and now resides in our dining room.

      Jesus of the Dining Room. Jesus of the Telephone Pole, Jesus on the TV and the radio. I wish a lot of folks would pay more attention to the message of Jesus (and Buddha, Muhammad, etc….) and less to making sure we all believe in him, and whatever interpretation of “him” is considered acceptable in their eyes. Personally, I am having a hard time avoiding it, the Sermon on the Mount, that is. It comes to mind whenever I hear the voice of the angry believer. The angry “believer.” We have entered a phase in history where it is more important to be “right” than it is to do the right thing. I am angry now as well, and I am weary of the persistent presence of self-righteousness and the lack of knowledge of what all this bossy bullshit will do. I was taught that you love everybody, and you go from there. Everything else is secondary. So here’s to you, the non-tolerant believers. May love reign over you, open your eyes and your heart, and lift the burden of judgment from you. May you learn that kindness is the key to life. Here’s my song. 

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Flip the Day

March 17, 2023