Collegiality

Collegiality

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A hard day yesterday, one of several. There was too much work and not enough time. There were the typical absurdities. But there were also revelations, shared laughter, plans for drinks after work. There was gallows humor.  In short, there was collegiality.

Every group of people creates its own force field. As we interview candidates for openings in the department I think a lot about the ineffable qualities that make for a trusted colleague. It’s a similar approach, a complementary attitude, a sense of humor. Sometimes you get it right; sometimes you don’t.

People who write have a tendency to get caught in webs of their own thinking. It was in part to avoid this trap that I entered the office world again. I can’t say I haven’t second-guessed my decision hundreds of times. But I didn’t yesterday.

Collegiality is often a haphazard affair, a
byproduct, the luck of the draw. But once you’ve known the joy and purpose of working together toward a common goal it’s difficult to go back.

Scentscape

Scentscape

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Walking through a field of clover the other day, I caught a whiff of childhood. The sweetness of the  purple flower mixed with the aroma of cut grass, loamy earth and hot sun. The scents were radiating from below, up past my knees and into my nose.

But there was a time when those smells didn’t have as far to travel. A time when I was closer to the ground. We all were.

No wonder, then, that the world was full of fragrance. That we were storing up a lifetime of olfactory memories and triggers, a scentscape.

It was the world, and we were just coming alive to it. And it can be there for us again. Just take a deep breath.

Journey Without Maps

Journey Without Maps

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I just started reading a book by this title. It’s written by Graham Greene, whose work I usually enjoy, although not sure about this one. Still, you can’t beat the title.

In fact, the title itself has me thinking. “Journey without maps” sounds so exotic, so adventurous — traveling to a place beyond civilization, where rivers have not been charted, roads not cleared. How many places can we go now that are unexplored, mysterious, limitless in possibility? How many of those places would we want to visit?

Like many titles, this one doesn’t work anymore. Now we would call it “Journey Without A Phone.”

As the map — like the land line, the address book, (heck, the book itself) — joins the slide rule and the 8-track player on the road to oblivion, we who remember and cherish these items are embarking on our own journeys. And they, too, are journeys without maps.

Moon Garden

Moon Garden

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A colleague asked if I’d heard of moon gardens — and now I can’t stop thinking about them.

I imagine a balmy night, slight breeze, whiff of honeysuckle. A full moon rising. White plants overlooked in the daytime shine out in the darkness: dusty miller, sweet alyssum, night phlox.

And then there are flowers that only bloom at night: moon flower,  four o’clocks, evening primrose.

Some plants are more fragrant in the evening:  flowering tobacco, pinks, night gladiolus.

Or maybe it is that we, the tired gardeners, are more open to their scent.

A Walker in Galoshes

A Walker in Galoshes

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The rain gauge says we received more than two inches last night. And it’s still raining. There are more flash flood warnings, which we take seriously around here, honeycombed as we are with the rivulets and tributaries of Little Difficult Run.

I read today that unlike hurricanes and tornadoes, flash floods are as deadly now as they were years ago. The main reason: People drive into deep water.

What about walking into deep water? Less of a problem, obviously, since most of us aren’t strolling through a thunderstorm. But still, it’s time for caution. For changing the route. For umbrellas and ponchos and galoshes.

One of these days we’ll have summer. Until then, I’ll keep checking the rain gauge.

(Speaking of rain gauges, the bamboo makes a pretty good one.)

Small Favors

Small Favors

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I read in today’s Writer’s Almanac that July 11 is the birthday of E. B. White, essayist, journalist and the author of the beloved children’s books Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web. Here’s what White said about the genesis of Stuart Little:

“I took a train to Virginia, got out, walked up and down in the
Shenandoah Valley in the beautiful springtime, then returned to New York
by rail. While asleep in an upper berth, I dreamed of a small character
who had
the features of a mouse, was nicely dressed, courageous, and questing.
When I woke up, being a journalist and thankful for small favors, I made
a few notes about this mouse-child — the only fictional figure ever to
have honored and disturbed my sleep.”

 What caught my eye is the phrase “being a journalist and thankful for small favors.” As usual, White  nails it in a few words. When one makes a living asking other people questions, one is grateful for information. And inspiration.

It took 15 years after the mouse-child appeared in his dream for White to complete the manuscript for Stuart Little. Talk about inspiration. I’m grateful for small favors.


First Edition Cover from Wikipedia

Tunnel of Trees

Tunnel of Trees

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In the great cycle of seasons, topics announce themselves with some regularity. Every year at this time (if not earlier), I notice the steady progression of leaf and bough, how the trees on one side of the road lean in, reach over and touch the trees on the other side.

The result of this mutual growth and attraction is a tunnel of trees, surely one of nature’s most subtly beautiful offerings.

Why is it so magical? I think about this when I’m driving down Fox Mill or Vale or (when in Kentucky) Pisgah Pike outside Lexington.

Do the lofty boughs remind me of a cathedral? Or is the appeal from the coziness, the impenetrability, of a cavern built of leaf and shade?

There’s no explanation, of course. It’s beauty plain and simple.
 

Photo: ©

All Rights Reserved

by tom8yours

Door, Wall and Flower

Door, Wall and Flower

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Art imitates life imitates art. The door bedecked with flowers, a variety of hydrangea, I think, larger and more open-petaled than the usual. The wall decorated with wisteria — and a bicycle, in case you get tired of walking.

To walk in an old city is to stop often to photograph buildings. It makes for a halting step but a full camera (phone?) upon return.

It’s more than worth the trip.

Perspective

Perspective

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A view from on high. It’s what we get from airplanes, towers, mountaintops, rooftops and other lofty places. It’s perspective. Our world grows smaller when measured against the immensity.

It’s a necessary corrective, an antidote to most craziness. It can also be lots of fun.

Today the indoor parakeets are spending some time outside with me as I work. To say they are excited is putting it mildly. They haven’t shut up since I brought them out here. A moment ago a baby bird landed on the table beside me, attracted by the exotic chirps of these unfamiliar creatures.  A change of scenery for them, too, that of the wild beside the tame.

What has the birds so excited? The same thing I’ve been treasuring recently — perspective.

Flowery Bower

Flowery Bower

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So far so good in this hard-fought battle between deer and day lily. A battle in which the day lily does nothing except bloom and be beautiful. A battle waged by the human on the day lily’s behalf. A human with a spray can of Invisible Fence.

Let us now praise the human and the spray can. Let us now praise the beauty that is the result.

It’s midsummer. The rain has stopped. The lilles are blooming. It’s a flowery bower.