The Singing Bird Will Come

Today is my first day without going to work in several weeks. It isn't always like this, but now is the "season" in our area if you are in the hospitality industry. We have learned to do more with fewer people and resources. Not all learning is good.

I didn't realize how stressed I was until Tuesday. I went to an auto repair shop because one of my headlights wasn't working. It is dark when I leave work, and for several evenings I was a little nervous during the drive home.

This was not your typical auto repair place. It was a wide open space with just a few chairs along the windows. They were of wood, not plastic, and were polished and shining. The art consisted of enlarged photographs of orchids, and there were a couple of paintings of island scenes. Live plants in lovely pots were here and there throughout the room. The only sounds came from the water feature on an unobtrusive table in the corner. No TV. No radio. No - not your typical auto repair shop.

I stood by the uncluttered counter, behind which was another fountain with running water. A plaque with the symbol for Harmony was next to it, and above were two framed sayings. One said something on the order of:  The quieter you are, the more you will hear, and the other:  If you have a green tree in your heart, the singing bird will come.


When the woman presented my bill, I told her I wished I was not in such a hurry because it was so calming in there. As I said those words, tears ran down both my cheeks. I was embarrassed. Yes -- I now realized I was obviously, definitely stressed.

I suddenly wanted to clear everything from my office, everything from my home, everything from my mind, except the necessary and the beautiful. I don't have time, I don't have time, I don't have time, I kept telling myself. And as long as I keep saying that, the more I will believe it.

Somehow we find time to do the things we really want to do. Today I could have gone through drawers and thrown away old paper, but instead I baked some banana-nut muffins. I could have boxed some clothes I no longer wear to take to the local shelter, but I sliced some strawberries and opened the curtains and lazily listened to the rain. And there are many other things I might do this afternoon, but sometimes doing nothing is the best stress reliever for me.  Even God rested on the seventh day.

The Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore

Last weekend I met my sisters-in-law in a small town that I remembered as having quaint little shops that I wanted to revisit. I wanted to show them the antiques, the shabby chic, the artist studios, the tea shops, and the homemade fudge. We were excited, and reserved rooms at the historic inn.

It had been raining all week, but we didn't care. We met at 10 AM, and hoped we would be able to see all we wanted  in two days. We smiled when we checked in to our rooms. One had a 4-poster bed. All had solid doors made for skeleton keys, and the bathtubs were footed and the sinks small.  The sills were wood, and there was something pleasant in the air that transported me to my grandmother's house.

Fortunately, it seemed we were situated in the center of town, and would be able to walk everywhere. On the first corner we crossed a railroad track and went in to the Chamber of Commerce. The man gave us a detailed map. He said, "No. The train doesn't stop here anymore."

We saw handmade jewelry and impressive fused glass. We entered gift shops with the same items you find in any town. We climbed narrow stairs for the promise of a refreshing snack, but were disillusioned when the display case contained the same muffins you can buy at Sam's Club. We laughed, left, and found the little French Cafe around the corner. We laughed there, too, as we ate our crepes and croissants, and were entertained by the waiter. We told stories, and studied the map some more. "I know that shop is around here someplace," I said.

But by 4:00, we were through-- through as in Is this all there is? Have we missed something? We kept checking the guide map. I knew there were shops I had been to the last time. I knew I would recognize the one where I had bought the green and white teapot, and the one with the lace valances on its windows, and the one with all the books. But they were gone.

The three of us had a good time. It eventually rained on us, but just a little, and we jumped the puddles and ducked inside another shop.  L had a knack for finding things. C and I just kept looking for something we didn't know we needed yet.  We found a restaurant with a good view, good food, and live music, and stayed until the band went home.

But time changes things. Even though the past is always with us, it can slip away, and today is tomorrow's past. What is present today which, on some other day we will look for, want to revisit, and it be gone?

 Who would think a handmade sign in front of a bowl of eggs would be so nostalgic?

Who would think I would want to take a picture of a shelf of old labels on old cans?

 And I never knew how sad this sentence would be -- "No, the train doesn't stop here anymore."

Reflections

Do you ever miss an opportunity because you are in a hurry?

Wednesday morning I didn't take time to get my camera when I was leaving home. I remember thinking it probably wouldn't matter, since often when I do have it, I don't see anything I want to take a picture of anyway. But as it would happen, as I rounded a curve I saw two birds drinking from a rain puddle. It would have been such a great image, if only I could have captured it. Of course,  I would have had to stop the car, grab the camera, unbuckle the seatbelt, stretch from the driver side to the passenger window, and lean out enough to have some light. What are the chances I could do all this before the birds decided to fly away? But I'm still regretting not being prepared.

And even more I'm regretting that because I didn't have the camera, and because I was in a hurry, I didn't even stop to watch them. I wonder if they lingered awhile and played and splashed and bathed in that puddle. I wonder if the light was such that I could have seen their reflection. I wonder if they could see their own reflections, and if they would think there were four birds instead of two.  I'm not even sure what kind of birds they were. I'm not even sure what colors they were. I don't know if they were chirping or singing or if they were silent. But I do know that, being birds, they had to be beautiful.

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