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Cracks

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Some thoughts to begin the day…. Where to begin…. I have so many things I want to get down on paper before they fly out of my head like a flock of wheeling starlings and are gone forever… so I will try: Obedience…. Oh, this word! How I railed and fought against it for so long. Submit? NEVER. Not me. I was strong, proud, independent, intelligent, and unrepentant. I would NOT submit or back down, ever. And yet… perhaps, through a tiny crack in my strong façade, crept doubt that, well, maybe MY way of doing whatever it was… might not be the best way, the easiest way, or the “right” way….  Oh, who cares about being right? I am a seeker, a researcher… I have always looked for answers, for information, for knowledge and deeper understanding… I have not ever been content to rest on what I know now, but rather to explore and search and question… yes, question everything, including myself. And when I do, I discover that I know such an infinitesimal drop of nothing in the huge pool of wi
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Piano lessons

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Polished and dark, the baby grand sat solidly in the corner of the living room. As you entered the front door the stairs rose directly in front of you across a small vestibule. To the right, along the wall, sat a small slant-front desk with cubbyholes and tiny drawers. The desk was forbidden territory, but the piano was not. A black and white vase always perched atop the piano, and a large fern on a stand sat nearby. Sunday afternoon light from the front window slanted across the keys as I practiced. I cannot remember how old I was when I learned how to play, probably five or six. I was given a scale fingering book, and my chubby fingers picked at the notes. Every Good Boy Deserves Favor. It was how I was taught the line notes, and F-A-C-E were the notes inside the lines. I still remember the notes from the lessons in the language of a child. My first piano teacher fades from memory, but by the time I got to the second teacher, I knew the basic notes. Mrs. Dusseldorf was a flat fa
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Packing Away My Pretties

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I can’t easily count the number of times I have moved in my life. It is probably around 30. That is a lot of uprooting and packing and unpacking. Now some of these moves happened before I was grown, and are not always accompanied by a happy memory… which is why I write about them now. When I was in my twenties, facing another move, a wise friend gave me a poster. It showed a kitten curled in a flower pot, sleeping blissfully, and proclaimed “Home is wherever your heart is”. It was a comfort to me, as I wrenched up my shallow roots yet again, and prepared to nest in another unfamiliar place. Many times the moves I made were due to financial hardship, family problems, or perhaps a desire to start anew a life that was rocking like a ship in a rough ocean. Whatever the reasons, there were sweat and toil, loss of possessions, new house issues and new landlords and locations to deal with. I always thought, thanks to my Dad, who loved to wander, that I had a bit of the gypsy in me. I stil
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