It hasn’t been that long ago that Facebook started dominating my residual time: the dominatrix of spare moments which used to be assigned to simply looking up into the sky on a sunny day; or wondering, how many stories could be told by the Redwood Tree which stands before me; or imagining what the bumble bee is really bumbling over while it lies, legs behind her, in the Foxglove’s blossom which grows outside my kitchen window: Ode to the simple pleasures. But today it seems those moments are swapped for Doctor’s appointments, home’s responsibilities, and what seem useless debates on today’s current events. The reason I even bring this is up, is that I stumbled upon some moments not long ago, which asked me: Which story in my life am I swapping and what power do I have over the story? Could it be, I was not seeing my real life, but only experiencing my appointed one: one of station, not passion. I’ve always been of the notion that being busy with business is dreadfully vacuous and well, redundantly busy. But, as my uncanny continued good fortune would have it, Miss Serendipitous stepped in and reminded me, when paying attention anything can happen. When being present, everything that happens is a miracle.
You see, about a month ago, I took my 89 year-old Mama back to the valley where she lived a life with my Father, me and my two siblings. Feeling her age and listening to her intuition she felt anxiousness about possibly never seeing her family one more time before her death. As she tells it, she’s nearing her back door. (Well, I can’t debate that, like I tell her, we all are Mama: We can’t live and not be.)
It was a short trip considering all of the family she wanted to visit; but we made our rounds and laughed, re-sharing stories of yore, all the while creating new memories to carry in our hearts and keep us warm through winters to come. It did this old boiled egg a world of good to see her be happy; I’m the first one to admit it. OK, back to simple pleasures, for I mustn’t digress…
There was one afternoon, while visiting, I experienced a built-in relaxation which should come with any holiday: surprising and refreshing — moments I had not anticipated. My nephew, Dustin Clark, one of five members of an aspiring-new-up-and coming-country-western bands by the name of FOGLINE (yes, I am unashamedly plugging the band, but I wouldn’t if I thought they were only mediocre… and yes, they are VERY good and most of their music is country-livin’ original). It was a blistering day in the sun, but I understood his concert was at a winery up in the foothills of the Applegate Valley in the small-town, Ruch. (Named after Casper Ruch, a blacksmith and founder in 1896.) Mama and I had not heard FOGLINE, live, and with that in mind and love in heart, we bundled ourselves up and off we went for an afternoon of music, surrounded by the mountains I knew as a child and plopped right down in the middle of a lovely winery; bar-b-que, and a lot of folks there to relax and rediscover their own rhythms. We had some family who joined us, and it took me back to a day of being 6 years old again: nothing pressing, only goodness; picnics in the park with cousins, great-grandparents; the complete annotated picture of “livin’ the life”. I watched people dancing in the greens; children running in the sun; and took my own personal moment marveling over the beauty of the shadows from the tree’s leaves, leaving their signature on other tables with their own families making their own memories. I noticed the breeze, blowing ‘cross my face… I noticed the air, fresh as driven snow and wondered why I hadn’t noticed these simple pleasures when I was home? I used to and it’s all there: mountains, fresh air and breezes riddle Seattle.
In those two weeks, I noticed a lot of things. I noticed the hummingbirds, playing tag between hummingbird feeders; I noticed I could still see my nephews’ soul in their eyes: still full of dreams, yet with enough life lived, a change in them: Now I see a reflection of compassion; empathy; wisdom. I saw how my brother had grown into my Father: his point of view, his posture, his execution of ridiculous humor. I watched my sister living a second chance at Motherhood, as she raises her 5 year old grandson. It made me sit back and think, wow, she sure is something for doing this. I listened to her tell me her dreams—I hope she gets to live them and I hope in many ways she sees she’s living some right now. During my Mama’s dialysis I would roam the back roads and miss the open ranges, but smile at the discovery of a thriving community. I visited cemeteries; I noticed the oyster blue clouds, hovering, ripe, ready to wash away the fears which come in and out of our heads every day, hoping they might bring the excitement of lightening and booming thunder with them. And wondering, would I be startled by that boom as much as I was as a child.
Simple pleasures: I can’t say on our return, we weren’t both tickled to be back in our own home. But we were tickled to be back for unspoken reasons. Not the television programs we were used to watching; not the posts on Facebook and comments to ensue. Not the Doctor’s appointments; not my conversations of what’s for dinner with Gary, or what we need at the market; or the familiar of what we knew, but more… what we forgot. But more, that certain smile from the man who says he loves you; the look in his eyes when he greets you; the wrens at the bird feeder darting like a new-aged symphony ensuring everyone gets their due time to dine properly; hummingbirds coming to welcome the day and to lap up God’s sweet nectar, while the squirrels play tag, running in patterns, such as the stripes twirling up the old barber poles, daring each other to reach the top first. Seeing huge conifers in the yard, standing majestically, patiently waiting for that summer breeze which makes them whisper life’s sweet secrets ‘neath the waxing moon.
It felt good to go back to my old home town with Mama; I unearthed a golden nugget in all of the commotion, I was given the opportunity to see what I had forgotten to pay attention to. I left thinking this vacation was for her; I returned realizing it was for me.
Life’s simple pleasures, they can be anywhere: at the beach; in the middle of a busy intersection; on the couch. But we have to turn down the noise and let the world spin at its own leisure; and then have the soul to recognize, it’s spinning just for us.