Despite the recent horrendous killings in Boulder and Atlanta, there were two moments this week when somehow I broke out into a deep smile and dance. Somehow, we must find joy between the sadness.
There have been so many largescale downs and ups in recent years. January 6th was a historic down, January 20th an exciting up. Before the inauguration, I too often felt fright, anger, revulsion, grief and sadness about our world. I had taken refuge from the viruses of DT and COVID in friendships, meditation, creativity, political action and exercise. But this week, two seemingly small events turned moments of my life from a waltz to a tango.
The fact that it’s spring and it feels like multiple winters are ending at once certainly has turned up the volume on life. On Sunday, a blog of mine that referenced morning light and sounds was going to be published and I wanted a photo of the morning to put on my website. So I woke up and went for an early walk. I walked for maybe an hour and a half, taking twenty or so photos, not trying to capture but simply express the moment.
And what a moment it was. The clear, almost baby blue of the sky. The freshness of it all. The expansiveness.
Part of the joy was the newness. I usually walk in the late afternoon, when the sun is already partly hidden by the hills. But not today. Today I was not caught up in doing things in the house or in cold shadows.
Over the last year, I have walked this road so many times, almost every single day, and the familiarity has transformed it into something else, not just a home, but a way of greeting myself. On a steep section of the road, a tree stood on the edge of the bank, three feet of roots exposed, it’s inside turned out. There is an old stone foundation just beyond the pine forest that was abandoned decades, maybe a century ago, a house-sized unknown reminding anyone who looked that even here, where now there is forest, there is a human past.
Sometimes, I get lost in thought as I walk. I’d remember passing an old tree that is half-rotted, with a metal fence growing through its belly. And then I’m 200 feet up the road, in the oak and maple wood, where an old house lies snapped in half like some giant named age and abandonment had just grabbed both ends and boke it in half over his knee. I take a few breaths and continue.
And then, around a bend in the road, between two trees, I saw my own shadow. It surprised me. It had been tailing me all along but because of the angle of the sun relative to the road, I hadn’t seen it. Now, what had been behind me was in front. And my focus deepened. Any thoughts that arose sprouted into reminders to look around me at the snowdrops and other new flowers, or to listen to the sound of water running in the streams and ditches along the road.
And at the top of the road, instead of a peak, the earth leveled off so I could see for miles. An almost hidden plateau of a few homes, fields and forests, now bathed by the welcoming clarity of the sun.
A few days later I visited a gallery of Japanese art. They had many prints I admired. But amidst all the familiar ones was a woodblock unknown to me, by an artist I loved, Hasui, who did mostly landscapes. It was love at first sight. But it was damaged. Someone, about eighty years ago had taped the print to the matting and now, around the edge, part of Hasui’s signature was obscured.
However, this defect lowered the price to something approaching affordability. I spoke to the gallery owner to get more information and assurance. Then I bought it. I surprised myself and bought the print.
The print shows a lone man walking along a canal, his shadow following behind him. The trees that line the opposite bank are lit by the morning sun, the colors, white, pink, a light green⎼ so fresh. And rippling in the water, more like a movie than a painting, were reflections of the whole scene. I couldn’t stop looking at it.
Did I love the artwork so much because of the quality of the printing, the design, and the colors? Or because of what it mirrored? Good art has that power to amaze.
And was the walk turned into something else, a pathway to myself, because I wasn’t trying to get somewhere but to just know the morning and observe what was around me? Was this why the road was simply accepted and enjoyed? Who knows?
Both times, I clearly heard the music, stood up straight, held out my arms, and began to tango.
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This post is republished on Medium.
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