Just Breathe

There is something to be said for contemplative time - quite a lot, actually. After the hurly-burly of three weekdays with two small granddaughters it is a treat to sleep until I awaken naturally, to practice yoga before breakfast, to sip my first cup of tea as the first rays of sunlight wash over me, to bring my food to the outdoor table.

I am surrounded by flowers and green growing things, by songbirds and rooster crows at dawn, by areas of intense sunlight and of deep greeny-black shade. Underneath it all is the silence of the rural countryside, a silence undisturbed by surface noise, a silence that holds the singing brook, the laughter of flowers, the sighing of the wind, the whisper of passing clouds.

Some days I plan projects, on others I let the hours unfold, waiting to see what might happen. I spend a lot of time with books, reading piles of them from the library, picking up paperbacks at tag sales, pulling old favorites from my bookshelves. I write poems that appear sometimes fully formed first thing in the morning. I write entries in my daily journal, make comments in the margins of books. Ideas find their way onto odd slips of paper that I collect and put near my computer.

Sometimes of an afternoon, after a nap (an hour drifting in dreams), I hop on my one-speed (mine) double-cheek-seat, pedal brake bicycle and tour the neighborhood. One four mile trip takes me through town, another skirts the center of the village altogether, leading me instead past the river and along the edges of cornfields and hay meadows. A third takes me a straight two miles one way and another two back.

On Monday afternoons (and sometimes on Fridays) I spend hours searching the database of Ancestry.com. I have been writing what family history I know for my children and grandchildren, learning things along the way that might explain my propensity for dreaming rather than doing, my vast affection for the out-of-doors, my need for alone (and contemplative) time.

Fall will come soon enough. I relish every moment of summer freedom I have, delighting in the morning mist that slows the sunrise, the brief beauty of my garden flowers, the happy splashing of the catbird in the makeshift birdbath, the hours that unwind in shades of gold and green, the quiet time spent with books and pen, the hovering visits of the hummingbird, the dusky silence that greets the evening, the last kiss of sunlight on treetops.

Early Morning Thoughts

Contemplating...

 There are magic bullets (or magic cures) for everything in storybooks but hardly ever in real life. We just slog along sometimes, wondering how to make things bearable if not better. I find it interesting that I struggle most when I try to live in someone else's version of the world than I do when I insist on staying in mine. One gets labeled as a rule breaker, as a non-joiner, as a rebel (or, at the extreme, a misanthrope) but oh, the rewards are much stronger than the criticism. 

I wonder that it took me until I was well into my sixties to discover what I'd known perfectly well as a child; to function optimally one must stay in one's own world. From there one can reach out, one can teach, one can act as an example, but the essential self doesn't get battered about by those who don't "get it." It's a hard practice when one works "in the world," requiring constant thought, but it is easier than fighting those who believe themselves in charge of you. 

I find my creativity waxes and wanes. I don't worry about it anymore, knowing that flashes will still whack me in the head, sending me rushing for pencil and paper or the computer. It's almost like watching myself live sometimes; I am both immersed in my surroundings and viewing them from a distance. I used to enjoy this dichotomy as a child and though I don't know how to summon it at will, I love being caught up in it now.

And The Wheels go Around...

The lettuce fields up the road that supply local restaurants and private customers all summer long.

The lettuce pickers are out early today. The men with their bare backs already browned by the sun, and the young women in tank tops, their long hair tied up on top of their heads, stoop over the rows as they harvest the young leaves. I wave, feeling mildly guilty that they are so hard at work while I ride by on my bicycle in such leisurely fashion.

Seeing them puts me in mind of all the jobs I've held since I was eleven years old; the housecleaning and babysitting I did to earn money for school clothes and 45 records and candy at the Five and Dime. I remember the crewel kit shop I worked in as a young mother, designing flowers and cutesy animals that were printed on cloth and packaged by a cadre of young women for a pittance, and the horrible job behind the lunch counter at a drugstore or the equally horrible stint as a hardware store clerk. I never could agree that the customer was always right.

I thought of how I worked my way from a teacher's aide to the secretary of the Vermont graded school my children attended, how the principal arranged for me to take typing classes before school started so I could better my salary. When I moved back to the flatlands, I was offered a job in the computer lab of a Connecticut school because I was the only applicant willing to work for the salary they offered. That I didn't know much about operating computers was less important. The classroom teacher arranged for me to monitor the before school computer program, saying prophetically, "The kids will teach you what you need to know." She was right, and I went on to take over the adult education classes in computer a year later. After I earned a Masters degree in writing, I taught writing classes through the community college. At the same time, I worked as a publicist for a non-profit organization and wrote a weekly column as well as news and feature stories for the local newspaper. When I retired this past June from the public education system, I had 55 years of working for pay under my belt.

Now I'm pedaling my bicycle as the sun rises, knowing that I have the whole day ahead of me to fill with chosen activities. My mile-long bucket list stretches out before me like a blue highway on a map. I wonder if the young people bent over the lettuce rows contemplate the day they will be retired, or if the long days of field work seem as endless as the years now behind me.