Breakfast time…he’s rummaging noisily down in the kitchen…something involving a can of Spam, a jar of Cheese Whiz and a bag of Goya crackers. The food adventure is happening downstairs right now. I can’t. I just can’t.

I’m upstairs with a big old mug of strong coffee. My goals are small today. Today will NOT be the first day I show up to a Zoom meeting in my bathrobe. I will not show up to my meeting in my bathrobe. I will not.

‘Do you want any of this ham?’ he yells up the stairs. I shake my head, even though he can’t see me doing this. I return the yell, ‘It’s not ham. It’s Spam and I’m afraid of it!’ I don’t know if I actually say the second part about being afraid out loud.

He bellows, ‘Ok, okay. I know where I stand!’ I just can’t. I give myself a once over check. Yes, I am dressed. Goal met…

The computer blinks on…

Zoom moments: Carmen Miranda is on Zoom…with me. All alone as I watch from my office and my side of the online rectangular box…my miniature student girl is all decked out…sporting ear buds with her little head wrapped up, styled high with a tightly tied red, white and blue towel.

All we’re missing are the bananas…

Life on Zoom as a teacher…

As it had rained steadily all day long in sheets and slivers of chunky New York rain…there was nothing left to do but buy a loaf of strawberry and cream bread, fresh hot off the shelves of the store; elegantly wrapped in colored cellophane, tied up with a creamy red bow.

And as there was still nothing really to think about, a cup of strong, black Italian roast coffee laced with real cream would do the trick, right so.

The lake kept rising and even the umbrellas were worn out and sleepy and the rain led nowhere and everywhere.

It was time to sit down…

It’s been raining all day long…all day long and the temperature fell to a shaky 45 degrees…in May, in our spring in this city by the lake.

We craved hot onion rings, jalapeno burgers and spicy chili in the evening…in our spring in this city by the cold, cold lake.

Any notion of planting…long washed away in the deluge…in the merry month of May, in our spring in the city by the wet, damp lake…

‘Girl, what are you wearing?’ He looks down doubtfully at the clumpy Teva sandals on my feet. ‘Boy…have you not been hearing all about my bum and painful knee? I’m wearing a brace. I can’t handle heels today’. I look at his face. ‘Even for you, my love. Even for your commencement. Teva clunk it is’.

He sighs. ‘You look…you look…’ his voice trails off. I jump in. ‘The word you are looking for is ‘granola’. ‘Granola’…hangers on and leftovers from the 60’s…1968 Chicago convention…through hikers…communes or wanna be revolutionaries…granola…pseudo rejection of bourgeoisie thoughts…’

He stares at me and then out of the window. ‘Yes…none of which fits you…granola. You know where granola goes?’ I nod. ‘Yes, in the sink…or stale in the box…or in the garbage bin’.

He sighs. ‘Help me clunk out to the car, Halston’ I laugh and extend my arm. ‘Well then…’ he concedes and taking my outstretched hand, leads me gingerly onto the front porch. He looks down at my feet. ‘You redeemed the whole thing with a fresh pedicure, I see’.

I turn to him and smile in the bright sunshine streaming onto the heating stoop. ‘Because boy, in my soul…in my soul…I’m Chanel’.

Together we walk out into the glorious May morning…

We eat together, to remember who we are and where we come from.

We plan and frantically organize to hide from the silence, to shelter from sitting still and hearing honesty expressed.

We keep talking because listening can be unnerving…

The day after my Father’s death, a long standing appointment resolved. The artisan hired to refurbish the piano, their beloved Steinway…arrived at the house and carried it away.

Lacking and off-kilter; that is how the entire thing felt…as if the air around us kept jumping…electric and unsettled.

January folded into the rest of the winter and we reached a kind of holding space. We waited and phone calls were made. Spring threatened and then the rains came with humidity and the new sounding board fought the damp and the heavy glue and we waited.

Summer languished just a touch and suddenly there was August heat and the first signs of harvest and in the end, for eleven long months we watched the empty space in the music room. A space that rich cannot remain void and it slowly filled up with grandchildren toys and a chair or two…and of course, stacks of music.

The furnace eventually started blowing hot air again and the annual turkey was slain and then…eleven tiresome months to the very day, the piano made the long journey home and settled back into that space.

Everyone breathes a sigh of gratitude. They say that old sins have long shadows and I believe it. But rivers of good joy run deeply so we light candles instead of cursing those shadows…and we surge ahead…

The creative mind lives in perpetual tension; balanced tenuously between getting things done and flying by the seat of one’s trousers.

The urge to fry every food in sight surges with rebellion as one considers the lowly and plain salad.

The wide open prairie car rides beckon alongside the captured yellow Manhattan taxi cab with sealed doors and exact mileage.

There is the need for exacting silence and the craving for relaxed noise. It’s all a blather and a whirligig bru-haha with a crossed ‘T’ and a carefully dotted ‘I’…a rounding up and a tamping down…

Best quote of the day: ‘Yesterday is another country; borders are now closed’.

The borders are closed. Now, seal your mind and rest.

The waters have washed over, cleansing the brine and the brackish flow.

Drink deeply of Adam’s wine…