As I woke up from my nap about twenty minutes ago, I looked at the clock, saw the time (3:20), and felt an immediate response to the late afternoon. It's the kind that I've had before without talking about it. Today, I'd like to say something, however, because the hours, like the seasons, have always had a meaning for me. "Meaning" isn't exactly the right word; at lease not if that has to imply "rational meaning." "Emotional significance" is closer to the truth.
The time between two and four has a relaxing quality. It's not only relaxing but familiar and homey. It's a comfortable chair to sit down in and watch the afternoon clouds drift through the afternoon sky. It doesn't summon me to do anything. It holds me in its arms so I can take a long, comfortable nap. And the longer, the better.
Five o'clock, on the other hand, is very different. It's mildly disturbing. In fact, I don't even like to see that time represented in paintings. (I'm thinking of a particular painting by Corot, whose work I otherwise like very much.) The time when the sun seems to be losing strength -- and its light has a little gray, a little fatigue mixed with it -- drains something out of me. But as six o'clock turns into seven, I become calm and optimistic again.
Seven o'clock in the morning, by contrast, is a very tender time. I remember once thinking of it as a Benedictine time, as though a monastic bell were ringing through it. I love to walk with a seven o'clock sky over my head. The divine presence is very close, and it's all sufficient. I don't have to do anything. I'm perfect just as I am.
Eight a.m. is cheerful but it opens a doorway into chores. I'm happy to do them and to see them getting done. Nine o'clock is neither here nor there, and ten is just nine's older sister. Eleven is a bit of a trough that I slip down into, but twelve is hopping along with its promise of lunch. One p.m. has a child's freshness and brightness, and then there's two, which is where I started today, so I'll stop here.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Sunday, September 7, 2014
The silent singing of trees
This morning when I took my walk, I was aware, as I almost always am, of the natural world that lives around and above the houses in my neighborhood. After last night's rain, the first good, soaking rain we've had in several weeks, I could hear the silent singing in the grasses and the bushes and the trees. Like a kind of needle-less acupuncture, it touches a center in my spirit that makes me very happy.
The cats and dogs I meet on my walk always make me happy and the squirrels make me laugh, but the singing in the trees takes me into a larger, more ancient world that's going to be here long after I am gone. I'm privileged now to be part of it, to be protected and uplifted by it, to be delighted by its body -- the giant trunks of the oaks, the branches that stretch across the street to the opposite sidewalk, all the shades of green which have been freshened by the rain -- that allows its voice to sing out so strongly.
The singing of the trees goes all the way up to the sky, which has its own singing that I can not hear because it transcends any ability I have. But even its silence, which is perhaps the root of its sound, takes me out of myself. The sky is not as dramatic at nine in the morning as it will be when the sun goes down, yet it can still make a dramatic impression on my heart. It engulfs me as I walk along.
If I can get away with a little more imagery, I would say that the sky is the church in which the chorus of the trees, bushes and grasses sing. And the root of their song is the earth, which for the most part is so buried under concrete and tarmac it's inaccessible. But where the trees, bushes and grasses are, the earth is allowed to be.
Poor earth! The developers have rented it the little breathing space it has because no one would buy houses in their development without some vegetation. But this morning I don't want to think along those lines. I'm just grateful for what remains -- for what exists -- and I rejoice that no one can pave over the sky or make portions of it into private property.
The cats and dogs I meet on my walk always make me happy and the squirrels make me laugh, but the singing in the trees takes me into a larger, more ancient world that's going to be here long after I am gone. I'm privileged now to be part of it, to be protected and uplifted by it, to be delighted by its body -- the giant trunks of the oaks, the branches that stretch across the street to the opposite sidewalk, all the shades of green which have been freshened by the rain -- that allows its voice to sing out so strongly.
The singing of the trees goes all the way up to the sky, which has its own singing that I can not hear because it transcends any ability I have. But even its silence, which is perhaps the root of its sound, takes me out of myself. The sky is not as dramatic at nine in the morning as it will be when the sun goes down, yet it can still make a dramatic impression on my heart. It engulfs me as I walk along.
If I can get away with a little more imagery, I would say that the sky is the church in which the chorus of the trees, bushes and grasses sing. And the root of their song is the earth, which for the most part is so buried under concrete and tarmac it's inaccessible. But where the trees, bushes and grasses are, the earth is allowed to be.
Poor earth! The developers have rented it the little breathing space it has because no one would buy houses in their development without some vegetation. But this morning I don't want to think along those lines. I'm just grateful for what remains -- for what exists -- and I rejoice that no one can pave over the sky or make portions of it into private property.
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