Paths Crossed: Geese

On bands and birds, fresh air and folly.

The other day, driving south on the 101 toward Depoe Bay, Oregon, I quickly pulled off onto the shoulder to observe scores and scores of geese landing in chorus in a meadow at sunset, squawking and talking. I have much to still learn about ecology, birds, and the like, and I sat wondering if this was their nightly spot, and what was being discussed.

Meanwhile, everyone I know back east is hooked on the band Geese. Apparently, I am the last to know about the sensation that is them. It was my friend Sara who first told me to listen to their album, “Getting Killed,” when driving back to NYC a few weeks ago. I had stopped by her house upstate, the blessed recipient of another amazing home-cooked dinner, as is her usual. [The perfect end to a perfect day of rock climbing in the “Gunks” with another rock star, who you will hear from in my next edition of Paths Crossed.]

Today, my entire social media feed is filled with friends’ footage of Geese in concert at Brooklyn Paramount. Even Nick Cave is singing their praises. Needless to say, it took me a minute, but upon my third listen of this album just now, I’m hooked too, and I suspect it will anchor my memories of winter drives out west. Check them out if you’ve been under the same musical rock as me.

In the deliciously fresh air of the Pacific Northwest, I also caught up with Ethan Hawke on a recently episode of “Fresh Air.” He relays to Terry Gross a conversation he had with Seymour Bernstein, who delivers a message to Hawke about loving yourself, making friends with your demons, and being proud that you actually care. He says stage fright and anxiety need not be seen as problems, but instead exciting guides toward excellence and growth. Ethan then discusses an impromptu moment on stage where he forgets where he is within his lines, so simply screams and starts over, saying, “If you are in the present moment, you can’t do anything wrong.” That’s a good one.

We really are so damned hard on ourselves. It’s pretty ridiculous, and a privileged position to be in at that. I have internalized so much shame in my life that was never mine to hold. But in the present, I return to right where I am, the real real as it feels to me—feeling being the operative word in turning my senses on and my brain off:

In marveling at the patterns in the sand as I undo my own, my power reverberates again that of the ocean.

There have been periods that I nearly forget there are stars in the sky until I leave the city again, and last night they delivered. (I’m still grateful that while on a nourishing call with my friend, she gasped mid sentence and commented on them from a few miles down the road. This prompted me to go out to the driveway, which hadn’t even occurred to me in the darkness and cloud cover since arrival.)

I allowed the Pacific to toss me around for hours this week. While certainly overwhelming at first, it becomes a cold, enlivening pummel. It leaves me giggling in its power as I surrender and ride the wave. And there is no time to overthink in the ocean—I absolutely love that my 60-year-old surf instructor saw that trait already in my big brain, as we instead practiced just going for it. (I totally sucked but that’s definitely not the point.)

In all its upwelling, the ocean’s cold water moves to the surface, bringing with it nutrients that are integral to the ecosystem. I think the same thing happens every time I actually welcome a stinging cry or admit that a harsh moment hurts versus push it away and tell myself stories about why it should not be allowed. It’s nuanced but profound in the way forward, as is each flight a bird takes, each sip of clean air we are fortunate enough to experience, each nod we give to another as witness, and each record we blast that makes us feel something in the continued, creative act of living.

I did not alter these colors. WTF.