I've wondered a lot about how one's life is measured, ultimately. What do these few fast decades on the planet mean? Why is such a visit part of the cosmic scheme? Like the old movie says, "What's it all about, Alfie?"
Some answers became clear this week as I helped celebrate my favorite uncle's life. Repeatedly I heard these words to describe his behavior while here: love, family, honor, integrity, laughter, example, courage, optimism, fidelity, curiosity, and commitment.
I learned that his life is measured, not just by the Purple Heart he was awarded for his service as a Marine in the Pacific during World War II; not just by the sixty year marriage to his beautiful lady; not just by the three fine human beings that are his children; not just by his two incredible grandchildren; not just by the educational foundation set up to honor him and his lady; not just by the professional successes he attained through difficult decades.
I learned that his life is measured, ultimately, by the values he lived, by the example he set, by the legacy of behavior he leaves behind. At his funeral, we were challenged to do a good deed in my uncle's honor in the coming weeks, as one way of honoring his stay on earth. That is a fine challenge, an easy one that will benefit many.
When his lady, my precious aunt, passed, I purchased a sterling bracelet with the well known prayer from St Francis of Assisi engraved on it. Wearing the bracelet, if I were inclined to respond to a stressful situation with haughtiness or impatience or disdain, I could simply touch the bracelet and be reminded that I could choose to respond as my aunt would have done: forgiving, patient, smiling, compassionate.
Now I am going to look for something to carry with me that will help me emulate my uncle, something that will help me carry on the legacy of his inspirational life. I am so blessed to have known this noble creature, my Uncle Marty.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Garden Gaze
What a joy it is, this time of year, to wander through the yard. Change is ever-present. All is flux. There's no stasis. Turn your head; there's a new bud. Turn your head; it's gone, its site marked by a Rubenesque blossom. Turn your head; the bloom's been displaced by a knob of someday fruit! No standing still this time of year.
It's important, now, to take garden observation seriously. Garden gazing is an art, one that can and should be honed finely. The forays must be done several times a day, on a set circuit, at an established pace, and, quite essentially, in a certain posture.
I remember my Slovenian grandfather making such treks around his small, but incredible yard. He had important duties to perform each day and was quite humorless about them. The lettuce beds, the nectarine grafts, the horse radish arena, the iris spears: they all required his rapt attention. Giggling granddaughters could come along, but only if they understood the solemnity of the trek and acted appropriately.
I would do my best to trail along, trying not to get sidetracked by the tempting shady porch or secretive club house or mysterious chicken farm out back. I would do my best to follow my austere grandfather and feign interest in his horticultural observations. I would do my best to emulate him.
And now, by gosh, I find I am a walking, talking, pausing, staring, bending, scowling, grinning, mimic of that garden trekker. I have become, in these vegetative expeditions, my grandfather. How do I know? Easy. It's the posture. It's the pace.
I walk slowly, with small, even steps. I bend down to chart a seedling's push through to the light. And, like my grandpa, I swing my arms behind me, allowing one hand to hold its mate. I walk along, hands clasped behind me in a slight stoop. The pose is so comfortable, so ideal for garden gazing. Putting hands in pockets would be way too nonchalant, totally inappropriate for this task. Putting hands akimbo would be absolutely brash and uncalled for. Letting arms swing loosely would be inconsistent with the measured tasks ahead, too casual, too unstructured. Carrying tools or other items would not be right, as the hands must be free to take care of any garden emergency. (If one were checking the lettuce bed, it would be acceptable to carry the large metal watering can in one hand, but the other hand must not make a fuss.) The best mode for garden perusal is, then, hands clasped behind, walking slowly with a slight stoop.
I find this posture absolutely perfect for tours through my yard. I like walking around looking like a little old woman keeping tabs on her small farm, because that's exactly what I am. I have seen the octogenarian down the street stooping through the expanse of her yard in the same way and I know that she has made connection with the great garden gazers of the world. We all understand that we must walk slowly, with our arms clasped behind us, rounding our backs, so we can fully explore the non-stop surprises of these exuberant spring days!
It's important, now, to take garden observation seriously. Garden gazing is an art, one that can and should be honed finely. The forays must be done several times a day, on a set circuit, at an established pace, and, quite essentially, in a certain posture.
I remember my Slovenian grandfather making such treks around his small, but incredible yard. He had important duties to perform each day and was quite humorless about them. The lettuce beds, the nectarine grafts, the horse radish arena, the iris spears: they all required his rapt attention. Giggling granddaughters could come along, but only if they understood the solemnity of the trek and acted appropriately.
I would do my best to trail along, trying not to get sidetracked by the tempting shady porch or secretive club house or mysterious chicken farm out back. I would do my best to follow my austere grandfather and feign interest in his horticultural observations. I would do my best to emulate him.
And now, by gosh, I find I am a walking, talking, pausing, staring, bending, scowling, grinning, mimic of that garden trekker. I have become, in these vegetative expeditions, my grandfather. How do I know? Easy. It's the posture. It's the pace.
I walk slowly, with small, even steps. I bend down to chart a seedling's push through to the light. And, like my grandpa, I swing my arms behind me, allowing one hand to hold its mate. I walk along, hands clasped behind me in a slight stoop. The pose is so comfortable, so ideal for garden gazing. Putting hands in pockets would be way too nonchalant, totally inappropriate for this task. Putting hands akimbo would be absolutely brash and uncalled for. Letting arms swing loosely would be inconsistent with the measured tasks ahead, too casual, too unstructured. Carrying tools or other items would not be right, as the hands must be free to take care of any garden emergency. (If one were checking the lettuce bed, it would be acceptable to carry the large metal watering can in one hand, but the other hand must not make a fuss.) The best mode for garden perusal is, then, hands clasped behind, walking slowly with a slight stoop.
I find this posture absolutely perfect for tours through my yard. I like walking around looking like a little old woman keeping tabs on her small farm, because that's exactly what I am. I have seen the octogenarian down the street stooping through the expanse of her yard in the same way and I know that she has made connection with the great garden gazers of the world. We all understand that we must walk slowly, with our arms clasped behind us, rounding our backs, so we can fully explore the non-stop surprises of these exuberant spring days!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Bolts
My dog Sadie and I just sat in the doorway of the sunroom to witness a ferocious spring storm. It was a superb performance. Gigantic roars coursed across the grey ceiling of cloud. I envisioned Jack saying something to really, really annoy the Giant, spawning these monstrous booms. They rolled across the high desert valley that hosts my city. I winced a couple of times, they were that fierce.
And the sparks! White hot rips of energy slashed the southern sky over and over and over. Only one was so close that I counted...just to make sure the huge shade-provider in my backyard would not be a charred stump come morning. My sighed relief met the one-two-three of a distant strike.
I'm thrilled to share this springtime treat with my dog. Her predecessor, angelic Aja, the slender yellow lab, hated lightning, hated thunder, hated fireworks, hated backfires, hated loud slaps. She'd cower in late June and July as the neighborhood punks flung their cherry bombs and Roman candles into the night sky. If she could have made a den behind the furnace or washer/dryer, she would have. Not funny, the loud noises, not one bit entertaining.
This dog, though, doesn't mind. Sadie celebrated her first New Year's Eve on the cliff's edge in our back yard, tracking local fireworks across the starred dome. Fascinated she was by these strange lights that moved. Noise? What noise? Sadie didn't seem to care. Tonight she was similarly intrigued. Hmmmm, quite a bit of wind. Oh my, seems to be some heavy rain. Yes, more of that loud, deep sound. Curious. This dog likes to observe, often with a bit of a scowl. Anthropomorphizing, I'd say she's doing some deep pondering. But I know her better than that. Deep thinking is not one of Sadie's traits. It's more likely that she was trying to connect the flashes and noise and wind and rain with the dispensation of dog treats or fuzzy toy animals. They could be connected; yes, they could!
A splendid evening, this. Rain still wallops my sunroom's metal roof. I like the snare drum sound that makes a light drizzle seem pretty darned fierce. I like the wildness of spring weather. I like sharing it with my sort of thoughtful dog, Sadie.
And the sparks! White hot rips of energy slashed the southern sky over and over and over. Only one was so close that I counted...just to make sure the huge shade-provider in my backyard would not be a charred stump come morning. My sighed relief met the one-two-three of a distant strike.
I'm thrilled to share this springtime treat with my dog. Her predecessor, angelic Aja, the slender yellow lab, hated lightning, hated thunder, hated fireworks, hated backfires, hated loud slaps. She'd cower in late June and July as the neighborhood punks flung their cherry bombs and Roman candles into the night sky. If she could have made a den behind the furnace or washer/dryer, she would have. Not funny, the loud noises, not one bit entertaining.
This dog, though, doesn't mind. Sadie celebrated her first New Year's Eve on the cliff's edge in our back yard, tracking local fireworks across the starred dome. Fascinated she was by these strange lights that moved. Noise? What noise? Sadie didn't seem to care. Tonight she was similarly intrigued. Hmmmm, quite a bit of wind. Oh my, seems to be some heavy rain. Yes, more of that loud, deep sound. Curious. This dog likes to observe, often with a bit of a scowl. Anthropomorphizing, I'd say she's doing some deep pondering. But I know her better than that. Deep thinking is not one of Sadie's traits. It's more likely that she was trying to connect the flashes and noise and wind and rain with the dispensation of dog treats or fuzzy toy animals. They could be connected; yes, they could!
A splendid evening, this. Rain still wallops my sunroom's metal roof. I like the snare drum sound that makes a light drizzle seem pretty darned fierce. I like the wildness of spring weather. I like sharing it with my sort of thoughtful dog, Sadie.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Red Rock
A recent trek through the red rock country of southern Utah changed me. Such a voyage always does. I'm struck by the intensity of the landscape, by the miles and miles of ooooh's and aaaah's, by the blessed scarcity of human fabrications. No need to build a temple in this country; there are hundreds of them made of rock.
Spring trips to this country were frequent occurrences for my late husband and me. We always found new places to camp, spots where we could savor the harsh landscape. At the Goblins, an unearthly spattering of odd-shaped stone columns, we camped on dark red sand, sand so hot we had to put blankets down so our dog could walk and sit comfortably. We loved this spot when the sky gave up its light: lying on a picnic table at our campsite, we scanned the Milky Way for hours.
One red rock trip took us to the north rim of the Grand Canyon, an incredible area, graciously free of the myriad of tourist machinations of the south rim. There we found huge rolling meadows flanked by thousands of aspen, the biggest aspen we'd ever seen, with trunks too big for us to wrap our arms around. One evening, while camped right on the rim of the canyon, my husband asked me where the popcorn was. I told him it was in the cupboard above the stove in our camper and asked why. He said "We need it for the show!" He had set lawnchairs up, facing west, at the canyon's edge. We watched an incredible sunset show, as the earth rolled. The movement of deepening shadows was actually visible!
On another red rock trip, we traversed Monument Valley and were given a tour of fossilized dinosaur tracks by a charming native American ten-year-old girl. Garbed in a frilly dress, white anklets, and black patent leather shoes, she was demure and very courteous. She revealed to us "secrets," like the fact that her family doesn't share locations of good dinosaur tracks with her uncle, because he digs the fossils up and sells them so he can buy liquor. She was very restrained as she described the fossilized droppings of prehistoric creatures. She shrewdly offered to sell us jewelry "made in the old ways." Oddly she didn't have change for the twenty I offered her, so I ended up buying more jewelry.
Yet another red rock trip found us at a summit overlooking the Escalante landscape. We spent the night there, after watching a spectacular sunset, and found ourselves face-to-face with elk at dawn. Their breath steamed our camper's windows as they peered in. The dog went crazy! A flock of wild turkeys also joined us at that high place.
On this trek, my daughter and I found spots where western movies had been filmed. "Head 'em off at the pass!" has new meaning for me now, as I've seen one of the passes that has typically been used to shoot such scenes. We were shocked, passing through Zion National Park, to find ourselves inside a mountain for a long time, as we drove through an amazing tunnel. Windows along the route flashed unbelievable scenes of gargantuan rock walls. We were both awestruck at the route the tunnel had taken: it bore through a perpendicular rock face that was one wall of an incredible canyon.
A book we found showed an intriguing diagram of erosion's effect on the area's landscape, tracking from the highest (and least eroded) of the sites, Bryce Canyon, to the lowest (and most eroded), the Grand Canyon. Capitol Reef, Escalante, and Zion were in between. The diagram made lots of sense to us. We sang our praises, more knowingly, to the wonders of wind and water erosion.
Red rock country offers stunning vistas, but it also gives up delectable small treats as well. One rock face that we explored was home to two different families. A small den was tucked in a crevice and its residents (probably fox) had scattered leftover bones in front of the den. I found a tiny jaw with four teeth. Above and to the right of the den were some cavities eroded by wind. Birds had nested in these holes, tucking in small sticks and grasses to make a comfy home for the newly hatched.
I'm enamoured with red rock country. Its shocking beauty and numerous treasures keep drawing me back. I'll go again, I'm sure!
Spring trips to this country were frequent occurrences for my late husband and me. We always found new places to camp, spots where we could savor the harsh landscape. At the Goblins, an unearthly spattering of odd-shaped stone columns, we camped on dark red sand, sand so hot we had to put blankets down so our dog could walk and sit comfortably. We loved this spot when the sky gave up its light: lying on a picnic table at our campsite, we scanned the Milky Way for hours.
One red rock trip took us to the north rim of the Grand Canyon, an incredible area, graciously free of the myriad of tourist machinations of the south rim. There we found huge rolling meadows flanked by thousands of aspen, the biggest aspen we'd ever seen, with trunks too big for us to wrap our arms around. One evening, while camped right on the rim of the canyon, my husband asked me where the popcorn was. I told him it was in the cupboard above the stove in our camper and asked why. He said "We need it for the show!" He had set lawnchairs up, facing west, at the canyon's edge. We watched an incredible sunset show, as the earth rolled. The movement of deepening shadows was actually visible!
On another red rock trip, we traversed Monument Valley and were given a tour of fossilized dinosaur tracks by a charming native American ten-year-old girl. Garbed in a frilly dress, white anklets, and black patent leather shoes, she was demure and very courteous. She revealed to us "secrets," like the fact that her family doesn't share locations of good dinosaur tracks with her uncle, because he digs the fossils up and sells them so he can buy liquor. She was very restrained as she described the fossilized droppings of prehistoric creatures. She shrewdly offered to sell us jewelry "made in the old ways." Oddly she didn't have change for the twenty I offered her, so I ended up buying more jewelry.
Yet another red rock trip found us at a summit overlooking the Escalante landscape. We spent the night there, after watching a spectacular sunset, and found ourselves face-to-face with elk at dawn. Their breath steamed our camper's windows as they peered in. The dog went crazy! A flock of wild turkeys also joined us at that high place.
On this trek, my daughter and I found spots where western movies had been filmed. "Head 'em off at the pass!" has new meaning for me now, as I've seen one of the passes that has typically been used to shoot such scenes. We were shocked, passing through Zion National Park, to find ourselves inside a mountain for a long time, as we drove through an amazing tunnel. Windows along the route flashed unbelievable scenes of gargantuan rock walls. We were both awestruck at the route the tunnel had taken: it bore through a perpendicular rock face that was one wall of an incredible canyon.
A book we found showed an intriguing diagram of erosion's effect on the area's landscape, tracking from the highest (and least eroded) of the sites, Bryce Canyon, to the lowest (and most eroded), the Grand Canyon. Capitol Reef, Escalante, and Zion were in between. The diagram made lots of sense to us. We sang our praises, more knowingly, to the wonders of wind and water erosion.
Red rock country offers stunning vistas, but it also gives up delectable small treats as well. One rock face that we explored was home to two different families. A small den was tucked in a crevice and its residents (probably fox) had scattered leftover bones in front of the den. I found a tiny jaw with four teeth. Above and to the right of the den were some cavities eroded by wind. Birds had nested in these holes, tucking in small sticks and grasses to make a comfy home for the newly hatched.
I'm enamoured with red rock country. Its shocking beauty and numerous treasures keep drawing me back. I'll go again, I'm sure!
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Petals
Fruit trees are starting their annual flaunt. A couple of weeks ago, I gathered an armload of branches from my apricot and pear trees and brought them in the house. I pounded the cut end of each branch with a hammer, smashing it to allow the branch to drink in more water, and put them in a large crystal vase in my sunroom.
The regimen worked, as they're all decked out now in delicious slips of white and pale, pale pink. What a gorgeous spring spray! Meanwhile, the trees outside are hurrying to catch up. Only one of the apricot tree's branches is in bloom. I wonder if the trees can see their severed limbs in full regalia inside the house.
I like flowering trees, but their excess can overwhelm at times; I remember writing a poem years ago, accusing a full-bloomed tree of being a floosy. Last spring, I empathized with my flowering plum tree during an angry March storm:
Nubile red buds
beaded on plum trees branches
are wrestling with relentless waves of wind.
They don't want to fight.
They just want to plump up till,
one warmed sun day,
they explode like pink popcorn.
It's hard for me to take these petalled trees seriously. Some poets have. Ezra Pound, for one. His famous "In a Station of a Metro" became a manifesto for the imagist poetry movement and this powerful piece only had fourteen words:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Pound treated a blooming tree's gifts with more reverence than I. Maybe I should learn from him. Maybe I should realize how impressive these beautiful, transient disks of color are.
Maybe I should learn from language. For example, the word "petal" comes from a Greek word that means "leaf" or "thin plate." A whorl of petals on a flower is known as a "corolla," Latin for "little crown." At the base of some petals are nectaries, which secrete nectar and sometimes perfume. This all sounds elegant and dignified.
Maybe I should adjust my assessment of blossoming trees from being spring's harlots to being the season's royalty. Imagine: millions of delicate little Princess Di's...lined up coyly on branch after branch for the annual cottillion. Yes, I think I'll try this new, more reverent view of the petals that make spring such a rare and sweet time of year.
The regimen worked, as they're all decked out now in delicious slips of white and pale, pale pink. What a gorgeous spring spray! Meanwhile, the trees outside are hurrying to catch up. Only one of the apricot tree's branches is in bloom. I wonder if the trees can see their severed limbs in full regalia inside the house.
I like flowering trees, but their excess can overwhelm at times; I remember writing a poem years ago, accusing a full-bloomed tree of being a floosy. Last spring, I empathized with my flowering plum tree during an angry March storm:
Nubile red buds
beaded on plum trees branches
are wrestling with relentless waves of wind.
They don't want to fight.
They just want to plump up till,
one warmed sun day,
they explode like pink popcorn.
It's hard for me to take these petalled trees seriously. Some poets have. Ezra Pound, for one. His famous "In a Station of a Metro" became a manifesto for the imagist poetry movement and this powerful piece only had fourteen words:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Pound treated a blooming tree's gifts with more reverence than I. Maybe I should learn from him. Maybe I should realize how impressive these beautiful, transient disks of color are.
Maybe I should learn from language. For example, the word "petal" comes from a Greek word that means "leaf" or "thin plate." A whorl of petals on a flower is known as a "corolla," Latin for "little crown." At the base of some petals are nectaries, which secrete nectar and sometimes perfume. This all sounds elegant and dignified.
Maybe I should adjust my assessment of blossoming trees from being spring's harlots to being the season's royalty. Imagine: millions of delicate little Princess Di's...lined up coyly on branch after branch for the annual cottillion. Yes, I think I'll try this new, more reverent view of the petals that make spring such a rare and sweet time of year.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Anticipation
Yesterday I got down and dirty...in my mom's garden and in one of the raised beds in my yard. It was a day of planting, a day of putting in peas, lettuce, spinach and chard. It was a day of anticipation. Great things will come from those seeds.
The work of seeds is simply amazing. The tiny, inconspicuous, sometimes funny-looking bits of matter morph in positively startling ways. Years ago the hippie in many of us got us sprouting alfafa and bean seeds. How intriguing it was to watch the lessons we learned in biology classes unfold right in our kitchens on pieces of paper towel. We were treated to a peepshow of the miracles that occur under the soil's surface.
I thought about those miracles a lot yesterday, about the strength that will be required for a sprout to move aside the soil above it as it reaches for the sun. I thought a lot about the strength needed to push roots downward to set up the plant's foodlines. Made me curious, so I read a bit about roots. The Greeks and Romans figured out that roots provide plants food, alleging that they "eat" soil to get nutrients the plants need. I learned that roots will grow in any direction where there is the correct environment of air, nutrients and water. Roots grow downward, though, because of gravitropism.
Gravitropism is quite the cool concept. It means that roots grow down and stems grow up, because of the earth's gravitational pull. To demonstrate that, you can put a potted plant on its side and the plant will adjust itself so that it is growing "upward." It won't really bend, but just send new growth at a ninety degree angle from previous growth.
Astronauts checked out gravitropism by growing basil in conditions with minimal gravity (microgravity) in 2007. The plants grew correctly but didn't survive long, as their root systems got more moisture than they needed. School kids and teachers are invited to participate, after the fact, in this cool experiment at NASA's website.
Greeks, Romans, and astronauts: that's what yesterday's planting led to. It's fascinating to think about what goes on below the soil's surface and exhilarating to think about the miracles that are on their way, once those seeds sprout and pop through the surface. I'm in a state of glorious anticipation!
Heart-shaped bean leaves spring
brightly from the darkened earth.
Celebrate this birth.
from The Silence of Bright Star
www.eloquentbooks.com/TheSilenceOfBrightStar.html
The work of seeds is simply amazing. The tiny, inconspicuous, sometimes funny-looking bits of matter morph in positively startling ways. Years ago the hippie in many of us got us sprouting alfafa and bean seeds. How intriguing it was to watch the lessons we learned in biology classes unfold right in our kitchens on pieces of paper towel. We were treated to a peepshow of the miracles that occur under the soil's surface.
I thought about those miracles a lot yesterday, about the strength that will be required for a sprout to move aside the soil above it as it reaches for the sun. I thought a lot about the strength needed to push roots downward to set up the plant's foodlines. Made me curious, so I read a bit about roots. The Greeks and Romans figured out that roots provide plants food, alleging that they "eat" soil to get nutrients the plants need. I learned that roots will grow in any direction where there is the correct environment of air, nutrients and water. Roots grow downward, though, because of gravitropism.
Gravitropism is quite the cool concept. It means that roots grow down and stems grow up, because of the earth's gravitational pull. To demonstrate that, you can put a potted plant on its side and the plant will adjust itself so that it is growing "upward." It won't really bend, but just send new growth at a ninety degree angle from previous growth.
Astronauts checked out gravitropism by growing basil in conditions with minimal gravity (microgravity) in 2007. The plants grew correctly but didn't survive long, as their root systems got more moisture than they needed. School kids and teachers are invited to participate, after the fact, in this cool experiment at NASA's website.
Greeks, Romans, and astronauts: that's what yesterday's planting led to. It's fascinating to think about what goes on below the soil's surface and exhilarating to think about the miracles that are on their way, once those seeds sprout and pop through the surface. I'm in a state of glorious anticipation!
Heart-shaped bean leaves spring
brightly from the darkened earth.
Celebrate this birth.
from The Silence of Bright Star
www.eloquentbooks.com/TheSilenceOfBrightStar.html
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Perched on the Edge
Four days alone in a cabin at the end of the road on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Just me, the sky, and the surf. What a blissful escape! The time there really helped clarify some things.
First, I live on a ball, a ball that's covered mostly with water. That notion is almost impossible for me to grasp. How could a ball be covered with water? Gravity I get, yeah, but it's a tougher concept when the matter that's being pulled to the core sloshes. The transitory nature of water, not just its fluidity, but also its ability to be gas, liquid and solid, mystifies me to begin with. Water's here, then it's not. It's a soft, sweet brush on the cheek, then it's a treacherous slide underfoot. It's too apparent some months, then woefully non-existent during others. Water's kind of a genie, I guess, or maybe some mischievous sprite.
So, when I try to think that quixotic water serves as a cocoon for most of the planet, I just get perplexed. I guess it knows what it's doing, wrapping the globe like that, and has been at it for awhile. Just seems hard to fathom.
My second "big" thought was that I was perched on the edge of the continent. That's big stuff. I'm at the rim of a huge land mass! I'm exactly at the point where the continent ends and the sea begins, where geographic and territorial and political and emotional fences abound. Yes, I understand about the official boundary, so many miles offshore, but that's all legal mumbo-jumbo to me. What sticks in my mind is that the sea is eating away, over and over and over and over and over, at the rock that is North America. And I sit here watching it happen! Is that exciting or what? As climate weirdness continues, the excitement may not be that much fun.
My third pondering revolved around human sounds. For days I heard nothing but the sea. No TV, no CDs, no chain saws, no cars, no sounds but the crashing of water against rock, against itself, against the rolling sand of beach. I found myself talking out loud, just to make sure my ears were still accepting people sounds. And I found myself savoring this blissful ear-candy. When my late husband and I canoed in British Columbia's provincial parks, portaging further and further from roadways and restaurants, we went for three days when the only human sounds we heard came from each other. We heard no trucks. We heard no planes. We heard no others' voices. It was remarkable. Thought a lot about that feeling on this trip. In fact, on my third day in the cabin, when a small plane flew overhead, I was indignant. How dare that pilot impose that annoying engine sound on me! What nerve to make me listen to that intrusion for three minutes! After this grumpiness subsided, I observed that I may have been cloistered long enough and it could be time to return to my people.
I did so reluctantly, quite reluctantly indeed.
First, I live on a ball, a ball that's covered mostly with water. That notion is almost impossible for me to grasp. How could a ball be covered with water? Gravity I get, yeah, but it's a tougher concept when the matter that's being pulled to the core sloshes. The transitory nature of water, not just its fluidity, but also its ability to be gas, liquid and solid, mystifies me to begin with. Water's here, then it's not. It's a soft, sweet brush on the cheek, then it's a treacherous slide underfoot. It's too apparent some months, then woefully non-existent during others. Water's kind of a genie, I guess, or maybe some mischievous sprite.
So, when I try to think that quixotic water serves as a cocoon for most of the planet, I just get perplexed. I guess it knows what it's doing, wrapping the globe like that, and has been at it for awhile. Just seems hard to fathom.
My second "big" thought was that I was perched on the edge of the continent. That's big stuff. I'm at the rim of a huge land mass! I'm exactly at the point where the continent ends and the sea begins, where geographic and territorial and political and emotional fences abound. Yes, I understand about the official boundary, so many miles offshore, but that's all legal mumbo-jumbo to me. What sticks in my mind is that the sea is eating away, over and over and over and over and over, at the rock that is North America. And I sit here watching it happen! Is that exciting or what? As climate weirdness continues, the excitement may not be that much fun.
My third pondering revolved around human sounds. For days I heard nothing but the sea. No TV, no CDs, no chain saws, no cars, no sounds but the crashing of water against rock, against itself, against the rolling sand of beach. I found myself talking out loud, just to make sure my ears were still accepting people sounds. And I found myself savoring this blissful ear-candy. When my late husband and I canoed in British Columbia's provincial parks, portaging further and further from roadways and restaurants, we went for three days when the only human sounds we heard came from each other. We heard no trucks. We heard no planes. We heard no others' voices. It was remarkable. Thought a lot about that feeling on this trip. In fact, on my third day in the cabin, when a small plane flew overhead, I was indignant. How dare that pilot impose that annoying engine sound on me! What nerve to make me listen to that intrusion for three minutes! After this grumpiness subsided, I observed that I may have been cloistered long enough and it could be time to return to my people.
I did so reluctantly, quite reluctantly indeed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)