I am noticing the past few months that LIFE has been pulling me away from my usual routines. It is my custom upon awakening, after peeing and combing my hair, to clean my hearing aids and take my blood pressure. Now,instead, I will find myself finishing the book I had to close at midnight or sitting at the computer reading e-mail or harvesting a crop on Farmville. I could never relate to people who were still in their nightclothes at 2 in the afternoon. Now I have become one of them.
I don't plan these changes. They just show up. I look down my shirt (or nightgown) and ask myself "Who is this that is behaving so unlike me!?"
Another thing of which I am aware is how drawn I am of late to solitude. Silence, stillness have always had an appeal. I will usually choose them over even music which gives me such joy.
I moved into this house three years ago in April. The morning I awoke after the first night in the house I looked out over the back yard;the trees, the flowers, the quiet water of the pool and the first word that came to mind was SERENE.
Phil has recently pruned the overgrown greenery above the back wall. Instead of just a mass of green we can now see the trunks of the trees with sky glinting among the leaves. Shadows have appeared suggesting secrets. The impression is that of looking into a glade, perhaps even a sanctuary.
As I reflected quietly on the scene images began to appear from a long ago trip to a Benedictine monastery in Germany. I am high on a hill overlooking the monastery farm nestled below in a copse of trees, the view sweeping away across miles and miles of neat patches of farmland dotted with red-roofed farmhouses and barns, the cattle appearing like toys in a child's play set - the sounds distant and muted; the soft lowing of the cows, a triumphant rooster crow, the hum of a tractor. Then I am lying on my back in the prickly grass beneath a cherry tree pulling the cherries off from the branches above, the firm red fruit warm with the sun and bursting with juice - exploring the honey house where the waxy cones are being processed by the monks, the air alive with the thrum of bees working the nearby hives in the service of their queen and of their intincts - kneeling by a pond tucked under the kindness of shade and dipping out a handful of wee tadpoles, wet and wriggly and cold against my palm - awe that these tiny beings were destined to become huge, fat bullfrogs with big croaky voices - like acorns that become mighty oaks or miniscule egg and sperm that become us!
This silent Sunday morning I am once again surveying the back yard. I see pots of color; orange, pink, purple and blue. I see the arbor above the waterfall frosted with the new green of the wisteria vine, the bright yellow spill of Texas Yellow Bells on the rear wall, the fig making its' way neat and tight as it reaches sideways across the stucco, the Queens Wreath with heart shaped leaves and flowers a cascade of pink, flinging its' elfin tendrils out above the pool beneath, the pool itself nearly still but for a barely imperceptible shimmer as it is kissed by a small breeze. Except for the occasional bark of a dog or the cuh-cuh-coo of the mourning dove it is so still I can barely hear the hum of my computer. It is as though the images outside are also inside and I am infused with the stillness of nature.
Lest you think that I have become a 'monkess' lost in a cloister I will leave you with one more scene. There are 3.4 seconds left in the fourth game between the Lakers and the Suns. I am bent forward on the purple chaise in front of the TV, fists clenched, tensed expectantly, heart pumping madly, hoping, hoping........ Kobe shoots and misses! But the rebound is tipped in. Lakers win. Suns lose. I am SCREAMING!!!!!
Love you all.
Here is poem from 1983. I was Lis' age!! It is about seeing.
Observation
With shadows settling on the shoulders of my room,
I pause to examine this quiet afternoon.
Traffics' muted sounds on Seventh Street,
My cat who walks on velvet padded feet.
Late sun splashes on dusty trees.
The drone of passing planes and bees.
The pool, a shadow-darkened blue.
The patterned pansy's purple hue.
With ears that hear and eyes that see.
I'm glad that I'm observant me.
I don't plan these changes. They just show up. I look down my shirt (or nightgown) and ask myself "Who is this that is behaving so unlike me!?"
Another thing of which I am aware is how drawn I am of late to solitude. Silence, stillness have always had an appeal. I will usually choose them over even music which gives me such joy.
I moved into this house three years ago in April. The morning I awoke after the first night in the house I looked out over the back yard;the trees, the flowers, the quiet water of the pool and the first word that came to mind was SERENE.
Phil has recently pruned the overgrown greenery above the back wall. Instead of just a mass of green we can now see the trunks of the trees with sky glinting among the leaves. Shadows have appeared suggesting secrets. The impression is that of looking into a glade, perhaps even a sanctuary.
As I reflected quietly on the scene images began to appear from a long ago trip to a Benedictine monastery in Germany. I am high on a hill overlooking the monastery farm nestled below in a copse of trees, the view sweeping away across miles and miles of neat patches of farmland dotted with red-roofed farmhouses and barns, the cattle appearing like toys in a child's play set - the sounds distant and muted; the soft lowing of the cows, a triumphant rooster crow, the hum of a tractor. Then I am lying on my back in the prickly grass beneath a cherry tree pulling the cherries off from the branches above, the firm red fruit warm with the sun and bursting with juice - exploring the honey house where the waxy cones are being processed by the monks, the air alive with the thrum of bees working the nearby hives in the service of their queen and of their intincts - kneeling by a pond tucked under the kindness of shade and dipping out a handful of wee tadpoles, wet and wriggly and cold against my palm - awe that these tiny beings were destined to become huge, fat bullfrogs with big croaky voices - like acorns that become mighty oaks or miniscule egg and sperm that become us!
This silent Sunday morning I am once again surveying the back yard. I see pots of color; orange, pink, purple and blue. I see the arbor above the waterfall frosted with the new green of the wisteria vine, the bright yellow spill of Texas Yellow Bells on the rear wall, the fig making its' way neat and tight as it reaches sideways across the stucco, the Queens Wreath with heart shaped leaves and flowers a cascade of pink, flinging its' elfin tendrils out above the pool beneath, the pool itself nearly still but for a barely imperceptible shimmer as it is kissed by a small breeze. Except for the occasional bark of a dog or the cuh-cuh-coo of the mourning dove it is so still I can barely hear the hum of my computer. It is as though the images outside are also inside and I am infused with the stillness of nature.
Lest you think that I have become a 'monkess' lost in a cloister I will leave you with one more scene. There are 3.4 seconds left in the fourth game between the Lakers and the Suns. I am bent forward on the purple chaise in front of the TV, fists clenched, tensed expectantly, heart pumping madly, hoping, hoping........ Kobe shoots and misses! But the rebound is tipped in. Lakers win. Suns lose. I am SCREAMING!!!!!
Love you all.
Here is poem from 1983. I was Lis' age!! It is about seeing.
Observation
With shadows settling on the shoulders of my room,
I pause to examine this quiet afternoon.
Traffics' muted sounds on Seventh Street,
My cat who walks on velvet padded feet.
Late sun splashes on dusty trees.
The drone of passing planes and bees.
The pool, a shadow-darkened blue.
The patterned pansy's purple hue.
With ears that hear and eyes that see.
I'm glad that I'm observant me.
