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Category: perspective

Gratitude 2020

Gratitude 2020

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The rain has cleared out, the sun is peeking through the clouds. It’s warm enough to have an al fresco Thanksgiving meal — if only we had known that a couple weeks ago. But that, like so much else lately, is out of our control. 

Thinking of thankfulness today, as many of us are. All signs point to the moment as the source of gratitude and wonder. The moment indivisible, the moment extinguishable, the moment which is all we have so we must live fully in it.

A tough lesson to learn. But grateful I have another day to try. 

Winter Sight

Winter Sight

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As seasons pass, dimensions change and distances shrink. The greenery that hemmed us in only last month has thinned and drooped. Leaves have shriveled and blown away. What was once a screen is now an open book.

We hear about winter light, the low-slanting sun, but not as much about winter sight.

My woods walks lately reveal shiny new objects: small metal discs hammered into tree bark. Some trees have been tagged recently because the metal gleams and the discs swing freely on their nails. The older discs have dimmed and dulled; some you can hardly see because they have been swallowed up by bark. The trees have grown around them. Eventually those markers will seem little more than a metal eye.

While these older markers have been there all along, I saw them as if for the first time over the weekend. It was the winter landscape that drew my eyes to them, the same bare expanse that lets us glimpse a hidden stream or the outline of a hill, once shrouded in green. It is winter sight.

The Wake-Up Walk

The Wake-Up Walk

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I woke earlier than usual this morning, woke to a cotton-wool world all blurry around the edges. Perfect for a wake-up walk, one where you start off half asleep and the walk itself is what brings you fully to consciousness. I took sunglasses because there’s a brightness beyond the fog and I wanted to be ready for it.

I began with Dan Fogelberg’s “To the Morning” in my ears, because its quiet start and slow crescendo mimics a day opening its eyes and stretching its arms. At the halfway mark I switched to chants from Anonymous Four.

As it turns out, I didn’t need the sunglasses. The day has yet to brighten as I think it will. All the better for a wake-up walk, one where footfall is stilled and thoughts along with it, where the hours begin their slow unfurling with dignity and grace.

The Raven’s Debut

The Raven’s Debut

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Last night I caught most of “You Can’t Take it With You,” Frank Capra’s 1938 film staring James Stewart, Jean Arthur, Basil Rathbone and … Jimmy the raven. It was first of many appearances for Jimmy in Capra films, most notably (at least for me) in It’s a Wonderful Life. 

I’m not a Capra expert, but I certainly picked up on themes I’ve known from his other films — the little people against the big people, the importance of friendship, the corrupting influence of money, and the dearness of animals. 

In this film Jimmy the raven helps make fireworks (don’t ask) and a small kitten sits charmingly atop a sheaf of papers that one of the characters is typing up for a book. She decided to become a writer when a typewriter was accidentally delivered to their house. Perhaps as good a reason as any to take up the profession.

Whether it was the writing, the raven or the sheer zaniness of the plot, the film left me light-hearted. Not a bad way to end the day.  

Second Bloom

Second Bloom

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The climbing roses have thrived this year, and the topmost ones are flowering again. I just snapped this shot today, attempting to capture the creamy springlike hue of the rose along with the first gold tinge of the witch hazel. 

Not for nothing are these called climbing roses. I leaned out a second-floor window to take this photograph. While I enjoy the view from on high, I miss the full effect when I’m more earth-bound. 

Every year at blooming time — the main flowering season in late May and the lesser one in September — I ponder the lesson in this. A reminder to train my eyes upward? To have perspective?

Second bloom means second chances, a bonus, what ought not to arrive but somehow, miraculously, does. In a time of year more associated with fading and dying, these flowers are just coming to life. Maybe that’s why there are second blooms — for the romantics among us who like to pretend there are messages in nature. 

The Bells

The Bells

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I found a new online Mass this morning, the first one to pop up when I did a search. One of the ways it  recommended itself was by the playing of church bells at the opening.

In earlier times, the sound of bells was far more a part of life. Bells marked times to rise and work and pray. They commemorated the passing of lives and eras.

Of course, now we are in unusual times, but even in pre-pandemic days I seldom heard church bells. In fact, my church was taken to task for their modest bell-ringing. As a result bells are rung shortly before services for a couple minutes at a time.

Thus are we deprived of one of humankind’s more sonorous sounds — and of the reminders they provide us.

(The bells of Notre Dame during an exhibition in 2013.)

Me Time

Me Time

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People always want “me time,” said the calm voice emanating from the screen, but we actually have a lot more of it than we might think. The way to retrieve it, he said, is to live mindfully, to stop thinking two steps ahead of ourselves to what we will do after the thing we’re doing now. 

When I heard this during my guided meditation session today, little fireworks went off in my mind. Not because I’m always clamoring for “me time,” a phrase that frankly makes me cringe. But because I know, in my heart of hearts, how much time I spend spinning wheels and riling myself up over nothing. 

It’s largely to still those wheels and quiet that worried, one-step-ahead-of-myself feeling that I’ve sought the solace of sitting still and focusing on my breath. I am still so poor at it, though; I can barely make it 10 puny minutes before giving in to rumination. 

But the sudden awareness that freeing thought is also freeing time — understanding the power of that equation — well, that will make me try harder from now on. 

Slow Sunday

Slow Sunday

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It’s already past noon, but I’m finishing up laundry and online church in hopes that the rest of the day will be slow enough to read and write and generally while away some time. My partner in crime: this hammock, which I plan to enjoy again as soon as I push “publish.”

The evolution of Sunday from a day set aside for special treatment to just another weekend day is one I lament. Not that it would be fun to have stores closed and activities shut down. But it would be nice to have a day that is marked by doing less and reflecting more. A day devoted to gratitude and taking stock. 

Some would say we can get by with a few of these a year; we don’t need one a week. But I think we might be happier and healthier if we could make slow Sundays the rule instead of the exception.

Spent

Spent

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The climbing rose is losing its leaves and there are fewer rose hips than last year. Is the plant ailing or just tired after a long summer of heat and humidity? Probably a little of both. But it’s not just the rose; it’s all the plants, the ones that are here, fraying around the edges, and the ones I had hoped to plant … but did not.

It’s that time of year when you realize that what you have in the garden is what you get. The grand dreams of landscaping that were yours for the taking in the heady days of early spring seem silly now. There will be no clematis paniculata planted by the deck stairs, no zinnias by the mailbox. The weeds that once threatened are now welcomed because at least they are green. 

But this is not to sound an entirely disappointed note. There are some gardening success stories this year. The transplanted ornamental grasses are thriving farther down in the yard, beside the fence. And the knockout rose I bought on impulse has made a promising start (even though it will have to be moved, thanks to one of those doing-better-than-expected ornamental grasses). 

Still, it’s time to acknowledge that we’re moving out of the growing season, not into it. Acorns are falling fast and even a few yellow leaves have imprinted themselves on the black springy mat of the trampoline. In a month we will be entering meteorological autumn. Summer … is spent. 

Learning the Significance

Learning the Significance

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I learned from the Writer’s Almanac that today is the birthday of Frank McCourt, author of Angela’s Ashes. I remember reading that book the first time and marveling at the pathos and the humor and that marvelous opener: 

“It was, of course, a miserable childhood: The happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood. People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the shiftless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and all the terrible things they did to us for 800 long years.”

Angela’s Ashes was on the best seller list for three years, won a Pulitzer and sold four million copies in hardcover. McCourt is the patron saint of late bloomers. He wrote the book in his mid-sixties. 

Re-reading McCourt’s obituary I came across this lovely anecdote. When speaking with high school students in New York in 1997, he said this about his book and the writing of it, something that should gladden the hearts of all those who labor with pen and keyboard, or the hearts of all of us, period. “I learned,” he said, “the significance of my own insignificant life.”