But look at the photo above, the photo below, and imagine, perhaps savour, the minutes it took to effect that difference in colour, in light. What could we do, in so many minutes, to make such a difference? Perhaps the slowing down to watch changes us as well, our darks turning light. . . Perhaps we could learn to release our need for something new, perhaps we might find the new in the old, the recurrent, the daily, the repetitive.
My own experiment with taking time to observe each morning, rather than jumping on-line first thing led to different results than you might have predicted (or you might have been more realistic than
This Saturday morning though, an exhilarating first week of teaching behind me, awake frustratingly early at 5:30 with no chance of falling back to sleep, I ended up sitting on the deck stairs drinking my tea. The cat had been looking fearfully about as she gulped her food, and I thought my presence might deter the raccoons (we have a theory about the "protection racket" they've organized, the percentage of cat food she's supposed to hand over to them regularly). She visibly relaxed into her meal as I settled on the top step with my large bone china mug steaming its fragrantly smoky brew into the late summer dawn. The first of the season's cruise ships had just moved its glittering behemoth presence out of our view, and we watched the quiet drama of gulls defying gravity, a small boat's wake scoring a line across the water.
So here we are. Saturday morning. Just another day, beginning. . .