Suppose The Day Is Being Photographed

Have you ever taken a trip and, when you looked back at your photos, appreciated the remembering of the experience more than when you were actually there?

I recently went to Paris. It was what I expected and nothing of what I expected. I did expect fine art and architecture, flaky croissants and crisp baguettes, all wine and cheese to be good, and to wish I could better speak the musical language. I didn't expect the women to be wearing very little makeup or perfume, or for The Louvre to allow flash photography, or for it to be so crowded that one would have to use elbows to get to the Mona Lisa. Needless to say, who could really see it under those conditions?

I knew I would like the Paris Opera House. I knew I wouldn't care about going up in the Eiffel Tower. I thought I would find high fashion everywhere, but didn't. And while there, I was already making plans for what I would do differently if I ever went back.

I had a good time--I especially liked it when the French woman who sold me a scarf offered to tie it for me. And though it wasn't funny then, I now laugh about getting stuck in the turnstile at the train station. In reviewing my pictures when I came home, I found it curious that I had snapshots of so many doors. And I regretted I had only 1 of the 17 bridges on the Seine.

Doors. Bridges. I have done the same in other cities. Hmm.

And your pictures from your travels -- have you realized a pattern?

If a person from the other side of the world came to visit us, what would she take pictures of that we no longer pay attention to?

What about today or tomorrow, here at home? Suppose the day is being photographed. Are there things that will have passed us by until we look back?  Could your breakfast omelette filled with crisp bits of bacon and topped with snipped fresh chives next to three firm red-ripe strawberries have been  pretty enough for a picture? Maybe someone joined you at the table, poured your orange juice, and expressed thanks with a kiss on your cheek. Or maybe you remember the day it was so.

Perhaps on the way to do something as mundane as gettting the mail from the mailbox we see a rainbow in the puddle from last night's rain. The toddler from next door is trying to pick up a watermelon. His mother is laughing. Her husband is in Afghanistan.

Pick up the blue-black feather on the sidewalk. Listen. Look up. Note the exact blue of this morning's sky. Yes -- today is a photograph.

And before we step back inside, let's not forget to notice the door!

Can I Borrow a Cup of Sugar?

I met my daughter and her family at her grandmother's house in the country this past weekend. I took pictures of her feeding leaves to goats, of the baby eating mulberries fresh from the tree, of purple juicy hands, and of chocolate Easter bunnies on my grandsons' faces. I snapped a photo of my granddaughter walking down the lane to borrow eggs for cornbread. And I took a picture of clothes drying on a line.

It was like stepping back in time. I don't think we ever had goats, but my husband had cows and chickens. I had been a city girl, so every day in the Ozark Mountains was an adventure for me, or should have been, but I took a lot for granted. He raised a vegetable garden, and his mother taught me how to can tomatoes and corn and squash, and make jam and jelly and syrup.  It was common to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor. A couple of days later she would borrow it right back. We definitely hung our clothes out to dry -- inside-out for colors so they wouldn't fade. (Watch out for puppies. They will pull towels and sheets down every time.) At night the bed smelled like the warmth of the sun and apple-orchard air.

What is happening in our lives right now that we will be nostalgic for in a few years?  Let's appreciate green spaces and wildflowers and slow-cooked, real food. Let's turn off the TV and radio for awhile, and be treated to the conversations of  bluejays and cardinals and sparrows.  Let's knead dough and bake bread.

Who knew I would ever miss being able to hang my sheets out on the line?

Perception

This story and picture were sent to me by a dear friend. I copied and pasted the e-mail, which apparently is one that is circulating. Though I have no proof of its veracity, it somehow rings true.

THE SITUATION

 In Washington, D.C. , at a Metro Station, on a cold January morning in 2007, this man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After about 3 minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.

 About 4 minutes later:
 The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk. 

 At 6 minutes:
 A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

 At 10 minutes:
 A 3-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent - without exception - forced their children to move on quickly.

 At 45 minutes:
 The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.

 After 1 hour:
 He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.
 No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold-out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.

 This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.

 This experiment raised several questions:
 *In a common-place environment, at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty?
 *If so, do we stop to appreciate it?
 *Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

 One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:
 If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made . . ..
 How many other things are we missing as we rush through life?

 Enjoy life NOW .. it has an expiration date.

And Don't Be Afraid

I read this poem a few minutes ago and I immediately wanted to share it with you.  I can't express exactly why it resonates with me so much, but poetry touches us on so many different levels, it is often hard to articulate why it accomplishes what it does.

Let Evening Come
   by Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

I wish I had taken photos of barns in years past when they were a common sight for me, or really looked at a hoe abandoned in long grass, or paid attention to the landscape dotted with bales of hay.  I especially like the poem's images of light of late afternoon shining through chinks in the barn, the fox going back to its sandy den, the wind dying down, and the shed going black inside.  Go back and look at some of the nouns in the poem:  light, cricket, yarn, dew, stars, moon, (silver) horn, bottle (in the ditch), scoop (in the oats)...  . There are so many objects I bypass every day without giving them a thought. Bypass. Pass by. I must do better.

At the moment, I'd like to be sitting in a squeaky swing on an old wooden porch surrounded by oak trees and Spanish moss at dusk, when dinner supper is over, and the only care is a sink with suds and a few dishes. I think I was there once upon a time, but I don't remember appreciating it. I am trying to do better.

At the beginning of this post, I said I couldn't explain why this poem resonates with me. I still can't. I have written and deleted sentences and paragraphs because they are simply inadequate. Let the poem speak for itself. Read it again, aloud if possible. It is a comfort poem. It will calm your spirit.

And let us take the last line with us --  "...don't be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come."

If Only We Knew What We Do Not Know

Oh, the things we do not know...

A few years ago I was fortunate to be able to visit Provence for 10 days. I was charmed by the sights and sounds and buildings and colors and people and colors and scents and flavors and colors and the language. And I really liked the colors. If I could, I would spend my summers languishing in the French countryside, wearing long dresses (sometimes with an apron), picking lavender and sunflowers, cooking and eating foods at their peak of freshness, sipping local wines, and practicing the music of its phrases. And the colors...

As you might imagine, I took lots of pictures, and never once thought about, much less regretted, not having photos of some white horses --  until this morning. During that trip, I was part of a 15-person tour, and all along realized our guide was lacking in providing educational information. On the way to a particular destination she said the region was known for salt, horses, and bulls. She said little else about the area.  We drove past some white horses without much ado. I don't believe anyone was taking pictures of them. I don't believe anyone knew ... But this morning I read:

...The wild horses of the Camargue form a distinct breed. Known as Camargue, it is one of the oldest breeds in the world. In fact, they are believed to have descended from the prehistoric horses, which lived during the Paleolithic period, around 17,000 years ago. The Camargue are born a dark brown or black color, but turn white around the fourth year. The breed is used to manage the bull herds of the marshland. Because of their natural environment Camargue horses thrive in Sea water. They are often called "the horse of the sea".  Here is the link to the full article:  
http://usa.loccitane.com/FO/Services/Blog/post/2010/09/24/Gazette-du-Marche-Third-Issue.aspx

How upsetting to realize I did not appreciate what I was seeing. These horses were born dark and turned white after 4 years. They were direct descendants of prehistoric horses. They thrive in sea water.  She should have told us! Or maybe even she, who had guided that same tour twice per year for several years, didn't know. It's a pity either way.

So I'm wondering this morning about all the things around us that would be more fascinating if only we knew  more about them.  Just imagine wanting to photograph bananas and fountain pens and cracks in the sidewalk. What about a close-up study of a spider web, a snail, a pinecone, old lace, tree bark, lichen, a sand dollar, an antique jar? How about the neighbor who rarely speaks, but if we knew something about her story....   (Everyone has a story.)

It is said that some things we know we know. Some things we know we don't know. And some things we don't know that we don't know.

So, where to start?
Where to start today?
So many things.
So little time.

More Than Just A Story

This morning I was looking for a book among the shelves of one of my bookcases, trying to remember if it was one I still had, or perhaps had donated to make room for more. Just the titles were enough to make me sigh with pleasure:   What to Listen For in Music; Sonnet; A Convergence of Birds; The South of France - A Sketchbook; The Names of Things; The Veil of Snows; The Forests; Cry of the Panther; Unquenchable Fire; My Love Affair With England;  Moonfleet; By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept; West With the Night; A Table in the Wilderness; And There Was Light.

Do your books remind you of where you were when you bought them, or of who gave them to you, or of a particular time in your life? As I look at each one, I remember these things, and more.

Blue Highways -- Several years ago, I visited a couple who first introduced me to this book by William Least Heat-Moon. It inspired them to travel the country avoiding major roads, and follow only the blue highways on the map. I told a new friend about it,  who shortly thereafter sent me an email, the first sentence of which was also the first sentence of the book. "Beware thoughts that come in the night. They aren't turned properly; they come in askew, free of sense and restriction, deriving from the most remote of sources."  Yes, he was afraid he was falling in love. He did. And thankfully, so did I.

The Secrets of Pistoulet -- I was so impressed  the day I bought it that I passed it around the table in a restaurant where I was having dinner with friends. I found out later that two of them went out and bought one the next day! It is a beautiful book which invites the reader to participate in the story. Letters are tucked in envelopes for you to pull out and read. Vellum is stitched between some of the pages lending a subtlety to the otherwise vibrant photos. There is mystery and love, and even a recipe or two.

But of course I also have books with titles which may seem more familiar: Room With A View; Prince of Tides; Cold Mountain; The Essays of Robert Frost; All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten; Under the Tuscan Sun; Hero With a Thousand Faces. I have a few thrillers and mysteries, dozens of cookbooks, many books of poetry, and shelves full of  those on writing, photography, and art.  I would like to have built-in bookcases some day. You know -- the ones from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Maple or cherry, and with simple but elegant molding.

I didn't find the book I was searching for this morning. I hope I still have it -- maybe tucked behind some others in another room. But just looking for it reminded me how fortunate I am to have books, and  how rich I am to appreciate them so.

(Clicking on the images below will take you to the Amazon website for further information.)                         

Somewhere On Time

This morning, a layer of early morning fog promised serenity and calm as I rounded the corner from home. Silhouettes of tall pines against the mist spoke mystery, and the sky was still salmon and coral, tinged with violet and a color I can't name.  Oh,  how I wanted to park the car, put on my sneakers, and traipse through those woods to find a well-worn path. Or maybe one not so worn.

But I had to be somewhere.  On time. And somewhere was somewhere else.

I purposed to wake early tomorrow, pray for the same weather conditions, and round that corner again. Will I? Can I? Or was that a moment to be appreciated for just the moment it already was?

Somewhere On Time
silhouettes
appreciate
time
serenity
calm
fog
somewhere