One new thing I am doing is working to make good choices in moments. It means being present, and it means not procrastinating. It means weighing priorities and debating lasting pleasure and the value of having a thing done rather than undone. I know I often misgauge a task, especially in my teaching work. I think it will take two hours and it ends up taking five or even seven. But there are times, too, when I think things will take much longer than they really will. I think I am too busy, think I can't possibly stop to take the time to put my neatly folded clothes away after my trip to the laundromat, so they sit on the table in my studio in their pretty woven baskets, and I root around in them whenever I need clean clothes. I don't stop to create a new avatar for my online teaching because as much as I would like to, as much as I would enjoy it, I think other things take priority.
What I am learning is to sometimes stop to do the little thing I have been putting off or not indulging in, to take the little bit of time to cross something off my list or to enjoy the pleasure it brings even in the midst of all my more pressing tasks. Today I acted on a task that combined both the thing needing doing and the thing to be relished. I've had a half gallon plastic pot of snapdragons sitting on my patio, and a packet of catnip seeds lying on the table there, both waiting to be planted for more than a week now. Today I took a handful of unplanned minutes and planted the deep magenta flowers, spread the tiny black seeds and covered them with fresh dirt. I watered them both with my old metal watering can, the sun vanishing behind the mountain, the air cool against my arms. I have plenty of work still awaiting me this evening, but those stolen moments won't change that. Or maybe they will. Maybe I'll feel a gladness when I'm grading assignments tonight, knowing while I type on my laptop the snapdragons sink their roots into the wet earth, and the sleeping catnip seeds dream of sprouting new fragrant green life.
Tuesday, February 1
Flights of Fancy (43)
I have begun entering writing contests. It is part of my new commitment to my writing work. The first one I entered was not offered by a literary magazine, but by the Celebrate Urban Birds section of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. The contest was called "Flights of Fancy" and asked for photographs, videos, artwork or writing. It called on us to, "Go outside and notice the wonder of flight. In some creative way, document the way birds take off from a branch, fly in flocks, hover, dive, frolic, and land." So, I wrote a little piece in response to this prompt. And because it is the first writing contest I have ever entered, I am counting it as a new thing and posting it here.
Bird Wings
I begin my qi gong late today. It's the first day of the spring semester, and I devoted extra time to answering questions online, to replying to my new students' introductions. I lost track of time, tore myself away from my laptop, headed back outside. But I am lucky in my timing. The late afternoon sunshine is still splashing across the patio when I begin. I place my bare feet on the sun-warmed cement facing north. My right kidney has been hurting, and north is the direction of the kidney. So I face north, and I move through the ancient Chinese movements.
The San Jacinto mountains are on my left, steady companions in my efforts. The sun disappears behind them early in the winter, but today I bask in the last of its light. I am not rigid about looking straight before me. I take in the sunlight on the mountains, the way it filters through the pine tree, falls on the patio, across the open doorway. At one point, I notice I can see a tiny, distant me, across the living room in the mirror behind the kitchen sink. I stand just so and grin at my reflection. A hummingbird visits the tecoma blooms by the front windows. I move through each exercise, and the teaching world recedes. When I turn to look at my arm stretched out behind me, the dragon looks at his tail, I see between the edge of my body and the sweep of my arm the crinkly papery blossoms of the white poppy that opened this morning.
The last exercise is a standing pose, knees bent, elbows out, arms raised across my chest--the dragon stands between heaven and earth. I close my eyes and breathe. I can hear the mourning doves passing between the tray feeder at the corner of the house and the pine tree in my landlord's yard. The pittery sound they make is unmistakable, not their voice as I'd once thought--declaring their passage? trumpeting their arrival? a kind of happy muttering?--but a sound created by the flapping of their wings. They don't fly close to me; they give me a wide berth, this woman who feeds them but who is unpredictable, prone to sudden moves. I can hear the hummingbirds flitting past. They fly close to my head, their whirring wings and high-pitched calls both familiar and dear. They become second nature, like breathing. The house sparrows fly close to me, too, darting back and forth between the pyracantha, their sounds a quiet backdrop, their wings soft feathery brushes in the air.
When I am lucky, a raven will fly above the courtyard, the slow, strong strokes of his wings loud, a sound from another world. I will turn, wide-eyed, almost startled into ducking, always awed by the big black wings and how near the noise of their flapping, like a creature from my dreams. But today there are no raven wingbeats. Today I keep my eyes closed and my knees bent and breathe the feathered air, and the birds fly back and forth behind my eyelids. The sparrows are almost more presence than sound, their darting flights above my head like shadows crossing between me and the sun. They gather on the ground beneath the feeder. When they startle, they take flight in unison, lifting in a blur of motion, 40 wings whooshing to the shelter of the hedge, one large feathered creature. Then they drop from the pyracantha again, one after another, sinking to the ground like autumn leaves from a tree.
Today I keep my eyes closed, and I breathe. I can feel the sun on my calves. The cement begins to cool beneath my feet. My still form becomes a part of the garden, and the way the birds flit past me, the way they fly near with no fear lifts my heart. Today I keep my eyes closed, and I breathe bird wings.
Bird Wings
I begin my qi gong late today. It's the first day of the spring semester, and I devoted extra time to answering questions online, to replying to my new students' introductions. I lost track of time, tore myself away from my laptop, headed back outside. But I am lucky in my timing. The late afternoon sunshine is still splashing across the patio when I begin. I place my bare feet on the sun-warmed cement facing north. My right kidney has been hurting, and north is the direction of the kidney. So I face north, and I move through the ancient Chinese movements.
The San Jacinto mountains are on my left, steady companions in my efforts. The sun disappears behind them early in the winter, but today I bask in the last of its light. I am not rigid about looking straight before me. I take in the sunlight on the mountains, the way it filters through the pine tree, falls on the patio, across the open doorway. At one point, I notice I can see a tiny, distant me, across the living room in the mirror behind the kitchen sink. I stand just so and grin at my reflection. A hummingbird visits the tecoma blooms by the front windows. I move through each exercise, and the teaching world recedes. When I turn to look at my arm stretched out behind me, the dragon looks at his tail, I see between the edge of my body and the sweep of my arm the crinkly papery blossoms of the white poppy that opened this morning.
The last exercise is a standing pose, knees bent, elbows out, arms raised across my chest--the dragon stands between heaven and earth. I close my eyes and breathe. I can hear the mourning doves passing between the tray feeder at the corner of the house and the pine tree in my landlord's yard. The pittery sound they make is unmistakable, not their voice as I'd once thought--declaring their passage? trumpeting their arrival? a kind of happy muttering?--but a sound created by the flapping of their wings. They don't fly close to me; they give me a wide berth, this woman who feeds them but who is unpredictable, prone to sudden moves. I can hear the hummingbirds flitting past. They fly close to my head, their whirring wings and high-pitched calls both familiar and dear. They become second nature, like breathing. The house sparrows fly close to me, too, darting back and forth between the pyracantha, their sounds a quiet backdrop, their wings soft feathery brushes in the air.
When I am lucky, a raven will fly above the courtyard, the slow, strong strokes of his wings loud, a sound from another world. I will turn, wide-eyed, almost startled into ducking, always awed by the big black wings and how near the noise of their flapping, like a creature from my dreams. But today there are no raven wingbeats. Today I keep my eyes closed and my knees bent and breathe the feathered air, and the birds fly back and forth behind my eyelids. The sparrows are almost more presence than sound, their darting flights above my head like shadows crossing between me and the sun. They gather on the ground beneath the feeder. When they startle, they take flight in unison, lifting in a blur of motion, 40 wings whooshing to the shelter of the hedge, one large feathered creature. Then they drop from the pyracantha again, one after another, sinking to the ground like autumn leaves from a tree.
Today I keep my eyes closed, and I breathe. I can feel the sun on my calves. The cement begins to cool beneath my feet. My still form becomes a part of the garden, and the way the birds flit past me, the way they fly near with no fear lifts my heart. Today I keep my eyes closed, and I breathe bird wings.
Friday, January 28
This One's on Me (42)
Yesterday afternoon I was stopped in the shade, sitting in my car, and I saw a crow flying in my direction. I leaned out the window and watched him fly toward me, a field mouse clamped in his sharp, shiny beak. I could see the four tiny, tender mouse feet splayed against the blue of the sky, sharp focus in the slow flight, the crows dark feathers shimmering in the sun. A second crow flew apace, two friends heading off together for a bite to eat.
Monday, January 24
Christmas Lights (41)
I became accustomed this winter to walking in the dark, in my own neighborhood and in the route returning from my creek path. I learned not to stop myself from taking my hour-long walk, or the longer hour and a half version, only because I had waited until it was too late to get home before dark. I learned to go anyway, and my reward was walking in the midst of all the Christmas lights. My reward was not walking in the dark after all.
It stretched out over weeks, watching new decorations appear little by little. Each time it was a surprise, an unlooked for pleasure when a new house was now alight with glowing color. I always appreciate the small, simple touches the most, like the house whose front door awning was framed in big colored lights, one short strand, while their Christmas tree in the nearby window was lit with white lights. One house had only one green strand of lights looped and neatly twisted through a wall in their front yard. But the folks who go all out, even if it becomes too crazed, too tasteless for me, still get my nod for their effort, for their enthusiasm. And my favorite this year was a house where they did go all out, adorning more than I would have adorned, using more colors than I would have chosen, though it still worked. But their genius lay, I thought, in the bright red strings of lights they wrapped with love around the three palm trees clustered in their front yard. I detoured past their home on almost every walk I took in December, hoping to get a glimpse of the three trees, bold and bright and beautiful.
When the new year begins, almost all of them disappear overnight, some odd unspoken rule, I think. Does Emily Post weigh in on this? But I have always felt an affinity for those of us who break the rule, who let our lights slip on into January, who let them linger. I have a secret belief I would like the people who live in these houses where the quiet glow of the lights is still visible on the 10th of January. If you round the corner on my block, you will see my own little cluster of multi-colored lights, a solar string I've wound into the hedge. I wonder if anyone walking by this evening imagines they would like me, too. Rule breakers, yes, but more, I think--lovers of light, of color, of shiny things that lift the heart and feed the soul.
It stretched out over weeks, watching new decorations appear little by little. Each time it was a surprise, an unlooked for pleasure when a new house was now alight with glowing color. I always appreciate the small, simple touches the most, like the house whose front door awning was framed in big colored lights, one short strand, while their Christmas tree in the nearby window was lit with white lights. One house had only one green strand of lights looped and neatly twisted through a wall in their front yard. But the folks who go all out, even if it becomes too crazed, too tasteless for me, still get my nod for their effort, for their enthusiasm. And my favorite this year was a house where they did go all out, adorning more than I would have adorned, using more colors than I would have chosen, though it still worked. But their genius lay, I thought, in the bright red strings of lights they wrapped with love around the three palm trees clustered in their front yard. I detoured past their home on almost every walk I took in December, hoping to get a glimpse of the three trees, bold and bright and beautiful.
When the new year begins, almost all of them disappear overnight, some odd unspoken rule, I think. Does Emily Post weigh in on this? But I have always felt an affinity for those of us who break the rule, who let our lights slip on into January, who let them linger. I have a secret belief I would like the people who live in these houses where the quiet glow of the lights is still visible on the 10th of January. If you round the corner on my block, you will see my own little cluster of multi-colored lights, a solar string I've wound into the hedge. I wonder if anyone walking by this evening imagines they would like me, too. Rule breakers, yes, but more, I think--lovers of light, of color, of shiny things that lift the heart and feed the soul.
The Exotic Volunteer (40)
I bought four native wildflower plants at the Living Desert and planted them together in a big pot in my courtyard. One, a cantaloupe-colored flower, is for the butterflies. They always come exploring but never find any blooms in my garden they seem to like, so this one is for them in hopes they'll find pleasure or sustenance, be enticed to alight, to linger. The other three are blooming sages, fare for the hummingbirds. One is squat with yellow blossoms and looks like sages I have known. The other two are taller, more wistful. One has tiny red flowers, and the other, who is going great guns, is filled with tiny violet blooms.
But soon after they were planted it became apparent there was a fifth plant growing, a volunteer. (I have never lived anywhere before where there were so many volunteers! And such a variety, too.) It grew straight up from the almost-center of the collection and formed these three exotic balls. I wondered if this was it or if they would bloom, and then specks of red became the hint of blossoms, and here you see it beginning to bloom. I wonder if it is a medicinal herb, if I would be harvesting the leaves if I knew. I hate not knowing, but I have not tried to hunt for the answer. I just check each day, curious to see what progress it has made in its unfurling and thankful it has come to visit us.
But soon after they were planted it became apparent there was a fifth plant growing, a volunteer. (I have never lived anywhere before where there were so many volunteers! And such a variety, too.) It grew straight up from the almost-center of the collection and formed these three exotic balls. I wondered if this was it or if they would bloom, and then specks of red became the hint of blossoms, and here you see it beginning to bloom. I wonder if it is a medicinal herb, if I would be harvesting the leaves if I knew. I hate not knowing, but I have not tried to hunt for the answer. I just check each day, curious to see what progress it has made in its unfurling and thankful it has come to visit us.
Living Waters Spa (39)
I drove off toward Desert Hot Springs in the morning, excited to be on an adventure. The inn was sparse and white, the pool glistening in the morning light, cactus and a spray of blossoms at the edges of the courtyard, the sky calling from everywhere, big and blue and endless. Mt. San Jacinto held court from a distance, visible in the higher clear glass panes of the windbreak, the lower part frosted for privacy. Because of the mountain's presence, because I couldn't see the valley but could sense it below us, I spent all day with the strange illusion of water spread out beyond the frosted glass. I never shook the feeling I was soaking in the mineral springs in San Juan Cosalá with the lake and the volcano beyond.
I have to admit it did not compare to my favorite hot springs in Mexico, but it was a delightful day. I liked the owners, enjoyed my interactions with the other guests. I am happy to know now I can trust in the caliber of people the place attracts, the kind of energy they foster. I especially enjoyed a young woman who worked there and her fiance, charmed by their goodness, their bright open faces. And I had a long rambling conversation with a young man, Justin, who was off to Hawaii for a writing and improv workshop with Anne Lamott.
My time there was sweet and social and restorative. I count it a luxury to soak naked in warm mineral water, to lie in the sun, nibble on goat brie and crackers, eat roasted peppers, read the newspaper, daydream. There is something so exquisite about the combination of sun and water and our own skin, a sensory feast and a prayer both, an offering and a gift. The unexpected pleasure in company rounded it out, made the gift more full. And the dreamy, yearning presence of San Juan Cosalá made it something else, as well. It made the day something just a bit otherworldly, made it something more.
I have to admit it did not compare to my favorite hot springs in Mexico, but it was a delightful day. I liked the owners, enjoyed my interactions with the other guests. I am happy to know now I can trust in the caliber of people the place attracts, the kind of energy they foster. I especially enjoyed a young woman who worked there and her fiance, charmed by their goodness, their bright open faces. And I had a long rambling conversation with a young man, Justin, who was off to Hawaii for a writing and improv workshop with Anne Lamott.
My time there was sweet and social and restorative. I count it a luxury to soak naked in warm mineral water, to lie in the sun, nibble on goat brie and crackers, eat roasted peppers, read the newspaper, daydream. There is something so exquisite about the combination of sun and water and our own skin, a sensory feast and a prayer both, an offering and a gift. The unexpected pleasure in company rounded it out, made the gift more full. And the dreamy, yearning presence of San Juan Cosalá made it something else, as well. It made the day something just a bit otherworldly, made it something more.
My Birthday Dinner (38)
I have thought of my blog often since I last posted, considering and dismissing, selecting and even forgetting the topics I wanted to write about. But I am bemused by how much time has elapsed. Ah, well. Welcome, I think, to 2011.
This post should have been number one in my list of 52. I was new to these new things, though, and no doubt at the time I thought this didn't count, that a birthday celebration, however elaborate and lovely, was not a "new" thing. Since then my definition has expanded, and as I search for ways to bring my blog current yet again, this event feels glaring in its omission.
The day I turned 52, my Auntie Christel gave me a birthday dinner. I was a new vegetarian, and she set to work in earnest, preparing a lavish feast fit for the gods. Or in this case, for the goddesses. She made a carrot soufflé that was both pretty and divine, and countless other creations, all beautifully presented with flowers and glowing glassware and sparkling china. I know there was a dish of baked tubers and onions, and a crispy crinkly convection I thought was made from sesame seeds but wasn't. I remember the new exotic foods kept coming and coming, and I was pleased and humbled by her efforts.
Before, we gathered on the patio, my presents and blooming plants arrayed nearby. There was basil and delphinium from Tante Helga and lavender from Auntie Gardi and tiny white flowers in a green glass planter from Mami. But what I was most struck by was my chance to be there with my elders, these four German women of the generation before me. The evening seemed symbolic, the meaning still a mystery to me. I only know they have fed me and shaped me, these sturdy German women, three of them immigrants, and now we were gathered together for the first time, for maybe the only time, and in my honor. A night fit for the goddesses, indeed. It makes me without words, grateful and quiet.
This post should have been number one in my list of 52. I was new to these new things, though, and no doubt at the time I thought this didn't count, that a birthday celebration, however elaborate and lovely, was not a "new" thing. Since then my definition has expanded, and as I search for ways to bring my blog current yet again, this event feels glaring in its omission.
The day I turned 52, my Auntie Christel gave me a birthday dinner. I was a new vegetarian, and she set to work in earnest, preparing a lavish feast fit for the gods. Or in this case, for the goddesses. She made a carrot soufflé that was both pretty and divine, and countless other creations, all beautifully presented with flowers and glowing glassware and sparkling china. I know there was a dish of baked tubers and onions, and a crispy crinkly convection I thought was made from sesame seeds but wasn't. I remember the new exotic foods kept coming and coming, and I was pleased and humbled by her efforts.
Before, we gathered on the patio, my presents and blooming plants arrayed nearby. There was basil and delphinium from Tante Helga and lavender from Auntie Gardi and tiny white flowers in a green glass planter from Mami. But what I was most struck by was my chance to be there with my elders, these four German women of the generation before me. The evening seemed symbolic, the meaning still a mystery to me. I only know they have fed me and shaped me, these sturdy German women, three of them immigrants, and now we were gathered together for the first time, for maybe the only time, and in my honor. A night fit for the goddesses, indeed. It makes me without words, grateful and quiet.
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