The endless Winter ends.
And just like that, it’s cherry
blossom season in nearby Branch Brook Park in Newark, and in Brooklyn,
where the online cherrywatch alerts
visitors that it is now peak blossom time.
Cherry blossoms are lovely, but I’ve always been more of a magnolia girl;
there’s something so lush and luxurious about those silky pink petals. And
like their better publicized cousins, I’m aware of what a precious short season
they have, which I follow on my increasingly longer walks with Ruby.
The grandfather collects recyclable
bottles and is often outside sorting them in an elaborate array of bins in the
yard, so I see him the most. Our conversations: "Good morning! Is
Nibble home?" "Yes, Nibble”, he nods and goes and opens the porch door and
out comes Nibble. Or “No Nibble”, as he shakes his head and I know that she is
somewhere in the house, or out on a walk to the restaurant.
Last week I see the dad, an affable
friendly guy. "Good morning. Beautiful weather finally. Where’s Nibble been? We
miss her," I say, looking down at Ruby as if she were the one with that
sentiment. "No Nibble," he says and shakes his head and looks at the ground.. His
normally friendly demeanor seems a bit flat, and I suddenly realize that he
doesn’t mean "No Nibble" the way his father always did. "This winter she get sick.
We take her to doctor but too late. (pause) No more Nibble."
I let out a gasp of surprise. All these months assuming she was inside safe and warm when in fact she was gone. On the way back home we pass the yard, with
the bins for the sorted cans, the chair by the door, a big tree and I feel his
absence. No Nibble, ever again.
Absence is also why I’ve stopped
posting on this blog. I still write
because that is what I do and who I am, but with no sense of anyone out there, blogging compounds rather than alleviates my sense of isolation, especially disheartening given how social media is supposed to connect us.
Years ago, when I was able to spend much of my time writing (both commissioned reports, articles and solo theatre work) my friend F approached me after a performance and said that she thought my stories would be great on the radio, and offered to put me in touch with D, a radio producer she knew.
Soon after I met with D and shared some of my work, slices of city life and the people I met. I was especially fascinated by those moments and places where worlds collided or you could see the shifts in neighborhoods: immigrant housekeepers and young apartment dwellers at the laundromat, inter-generational audiences in rapt attention at the free concerts I’d frequent in city parks, the newly landed hipster population rubbing elbows with the older construction workers at my local coffee shop, where a great tuna sandwich was a common denominator.
D liked them and agreed they’d work well on the radio, and he asked me to go make some recordings of around 3 minutes each. I got in touch with a nonprofit I worked with, a wonderful place that provided affordable recording time to musicians and performers, booked a space with a technician one afternoon and told those same stories with sound effects: the washing machines, the clanking of dishes as the busboy cleared tables, horns honking and horns playing as I rode my bike to a concert.…
It was an arid cavernous space but the most amazing thing happened. I sat on a stool and spoke into the dark void - alone, yet with an absence of loneliness. I could feel the presence of people I was speaking to, sense them listening and laughing, and taking it all in. For a windowless room it felt terrifically alive, with a palpable sense of communion.
D liked the recordings enough to share them with the executive producer of public radio’s most popular show, and gave me her private number. I called and she actually answered her phone (clearly another era) and spoke to me with enthusiasm and encouragement. Make more and send them to me, these will work.
I have no recollection of why I never followed up or made more recordings. At the time I had a lot doors open to me but I can’t imagine why I would shut one with so much promise. All I remember is how much easier it was to connect before the internet, how much more generous people were with their time, how exhilarating it was to feel possibility in the presence of things not seen.
About five years later D won a MacArthur Genius Grant for “making the listener complicit in the act of imagining other people’s lives” as he continued to connect storytellers with an audience; and I was the mother of two with a trajectory that would simultaneously take me further away from that land of opportunity than I ever could have imagined, and connect me to a wealth of lives I never could have envisioned: hundreds of remarkable people representing millions more who through some combination of disability, illness, addiction, age, race, income, or other factors are far less likely to have their stories heard. "Nobody has a clue what our lives are like," is a line I hear often. I hoped I might find a way to change that but I haven’t found it yet. I'm feeling hopeless lately, but I haven't completely given up. I keep walking and taking it all in and hoping my mind and the universe will provide some answers.
Every tree, every
animal, every person has their own arc, and change is unavoidable. My story is still being written and if there's anyone out there, don't give up - your story isn't finished yet either.
Another exquisite piece, Joan. I loved the blooming flowers as the backdrop for the presence of all the love I felt emanating from your words, and the poignant realization at the end of winter that beloved Nibbles, whose innocent presence was so appreciated, was gone. Both gone too soon; both more cherished for that blink-and-it's gone quality. I felt a message for you, too, in the cycle of expansion and contraction, in the wearing of the blooms or the dropping of them to the earth for her to absorb and transform into new life in the right time, in the divine order of things. Looking at past opportunities can demonstrate what we are capable of achieving, as long as they do not pull us into the quicksand of regret, doubt, shame, anger--all the mucky byproducts of "if only". Trust that you did and are doing the best you could.You felt in your heart that you were writing for a radio presence; now, go deep and feel all the members of your tribe who are hungry for your words and are awaiting their arrival--when they are ready to receive. You may not hear a thank you from them, and yet you know, as spring follows winter, that your powerful words can only help repair the world, whether in the form of a new awareness, a kind word, a gently touch of encouragement from one stranger to another, a new symphony... maybe the choice to adopt a puppy. Thank you for sending out the vibration of courage and hope, whether for us moms of kids with special needs, or our like-minded, compassionate fellow humans.
ReplyDeleteWow! Thank you so much Heidi. Your words really help me of little faith.
DeleteAnother beautiful piece.
ReplyDeletethanks Beth!
ReplyDelete