One morning last week I was listening to a guided meditation and focusing on sounds. I heard the hum of traffic going to the nearby school. When that quieted, there were birds. Chirping came from both sides of the house and into each of my ears separately. My breath softened; my body relaxed. I was all in with the chirping birds.
That’s not to say I often achieve that level of attention or focus or listening. I’m as distractible as the next person. I try to be aware. And I do enjoy the meditative qualities, the openness, and the comfort of silence.
In a blog post from nine years ago, “See the trees (February 2015),” I wrote about my favorite trees. I also reflected on young children’s curious enthusiasm for nature and how adults can take a clue from them. I wrote: “The thing about adults is that sometimes we are too preoccupied or in too much of a hurry to really see things.”
We can slow down to savor. We can stop and listen and see. Although they don’t always go hand in hand, I tend to equate silence with noticing, with listening, with really seeing.
I wonder why some need to have a constant stream of “noise” in the background, to fill everything lull in conversation with words. Why they can’t appreciate the silence.
We can sit in silence together. And we can listen to another without the urge to respond or relate. We can listen, notice, see. We can simply be.
When I consider something I wrote nine years ago, I think of how quickly that time has passed. How it also seems like yesterday. How SO much has changed in the intervening years. How important it to be present. How important it is to find and notice the beauty even, and especially, in the In Between.
If you’ve read my recent posts, you’ll know the weather where I live has been difficult lately. I’m all for getting outside in the winter. However - if the sidewalks are dangerously icy and the temps are dangerously low - you can’t get outside. Not to mention the total lack of sunshine.
Thankfully, this weekend we got outside. On our long hike yesterday, there was so much to see. Lots of slush and puddles and melting, muddy snow. Not to mention the dog poop and trash that unfortunately emerge when the ice and snow melt.
And also, there was beauty too:
*tiny, glittery waterdrop gems glistening on the ends of the branches, as the limbs emerge from their icy encasements
*a fluttering of left-over, burnt orange papery leaves popping tenaciously against grayish-brown branches
*an impromptu reflective pond of pea-soup green water, created by some strange mixture of melting snow and mud and grass and gravel
*the zanily-striped river corridor revealing a rainbow of gently muted colors from ice and water to earth and snow to trees and sky
I hope you noticed something special this weekend too.
May we listen and notice and savor more. May we be present.
Thanks for reading!
With gratitude,
Mary
P.S. My writing here is public. Please feel free to share with anyone who might be interested.
Note - I really enjoy your pictures....you have an eye for finding the beauty and the right shot!
I used to have a bit poster sized note on the door to my classroom/office that said "You have plenty of time." It was a reminder to slow down, to take the time that is needed to do the job I need to do, to trust that I am right where I need to be, doing exactly what I'm meant to be doing in this moment. As you say, to be present here and now.
What a gift to be totally present in the moment.