It was a late-summer afternoon in Georgia and we were buckled in the backseat of our red Astro van on our way to piano lessons.
As we pulled out of the driveway, my mother announced that today, I would navigate us to the piano teacher's house, turn by turn.
I felt my cheeks flush as panic set in. "But I don't know how to get there!" I said, my tone escalating. "We're going to be late!" (Yes, this was me, even at the age of eight.)
During our first year as homeowners, we planted a vegetable garden.
The previous owner had installed a brick-paver patio near the garage, so we dug up some of the tiles, created four beds, mixed in bags of mushroom compost, and planted 6-packs of cherry tomatoes, Romas, and heirloom varieties.
We watered diligently and tied up the stalks as they grew, harvesting a colander of tomatoes every few days during peak harvest and making batches of my Dad's Sicilian sauce on the weekends. 🍝
Most of you know that, though I live in New York State, I'm originally from Georgia.
With that comes a love of grits, gummy peach rings, and collard greens; an occasional Southern accent (it came out the other day on the word tailor); and a deep appreciation for time spent rocking on the porch.
Also, a discerning palette for cheese straws.
For those of you who aren't familiar, a cheese straw* is a homemade cheese cracker or biscuit, made with a cookie press or cut into rectangles and marked with the back of a fork. They are typically orange in color, buttery, and sometimes a touch spicy with the addition of a pinch of cayenne pepper.
March is Women in Music Month: A time to celebrate the achievements, contributions, and influence of women in music throughout history and more personally in our lives.
I've been reflecting on this recently, thinking of the women in my life who guided, nurtured, and empowered me to be the musician and teacher I am today.
Here are a few of the influential teachers and mentors I want to acknowledge this month:
Here we are: another year before us full of possibility and promise. Leaving another year behind with mixed feelings of delight, sadness, and everything in between, as is usually the case.
But we never really leave it behind, right? It's not as simple as turning the page on the calendar and erasing everything that's come before.
“A whispered chaos swirls in the mind of those who carry unmade decisions,” Emily P. Freeman writes.
And for those of us who feel the tension between outward signs of change—the frosty mornings, the wisps of wind through the cherry tree, the shifting light at end of day—and inward ones, we know this is true.
The days are shorter, but our to-do lists are longer; the natural world around us is slowing down, preparing for a season of darkness and quiet and rest, but we are moving faster, preparing for a season of light and holiday performances and dinner parties.
“A whispered chaos swirls in the mind of those who carry unmade decisions,” Emily P. Freeman writes.
And for those of us who feel the tension between outward signs of change—the frosty mornings, the wisps of wind through the cherry tree, the shifting light at end of day—and inward ones, we know this is true.
The days are shorter, but our to-do lists are longer; the natural world around us is slowing down, preparing for a season of darkness and quiet and rest, but we are moving faster, preparing for a season of light and holiday performances and dinner parties.
I know we're almost there when we reach this intersection.
We stopped here once, at the bottom of the hill, and I took this picture out the passenger window, which I later painted—"Country Road in Summer." Steve was driving and Rory was in the backseat going back and forth from window to window, ears flapping in the summer breeze. Every time we drive this way, through the hills of the Finger Lakes, I remember that moment in time as vividly as if it were a Polaroid.
Do you have places like this? Scenes that evoke such clear picture memories?
