Interfaith Minister, Writer, Poet, Teacher
I watch you.
So long that I forget about time.
So intently that I forget about space.
I watch you until I forget what you are called.
Eventually, I am no longer watching you.
A watcher is separate, and I have become
the suede of your petals,
the sinew of your stalk,
the sting of your thorn,
the essence of your fragrance,
the photosynthesis of your leaves.
For a moment longer than time and
smaller than a split atom
you and I are one.
This is day six in the Seven Solid Days of Smiling Salute To the Original Unsplit Atom for bursting forth into the Big Bang of Bounty that is this life.
Day 1 – Emily
Day 2 – Music
Day 3 – Magic
Day 4 – Cheese
Day 5 – Sleep
A late afternoon winter sky when the impending darkness could either be the muted setting sun behind low clouds or an approaching storm.
Sunset at Sedona with the red rocks rimming the canyon becoming animate in the last reflections of light from just another day in just another millenium.
The forever wetness of the rocks and leaves along the rivers of the Smoky Mountains where the fairies live.
Waves the size of buildings exploding on the lava rock shore of the Big Island.
Snow sloping to the gutters on a Michigan morning.
Rain as steady as a drum and playing encores all day long.
This happy little valley I call home, where I marvel at the continuous life-cycle of leaves, and burn brush on a winter afternoon, and drink the wine of communion with the hickories and oaks and maples, and walk out to feed the dogs on cold, rainy mornings, stand close by while they eat in huge gulps, and then walk back to the gate with one on each side, licking my hands.
One last taste or gratitude. I can never tell.
I never really appreciated change until I stood still. When you’re moving, moving things seem motionless. Like going down the highway at 65 miles per hour right next to a car going precisely 65 miles per hour, your own journey and those journeys taking place around you can seem almost imperceptible.
Until I was 39 I was a nomad. I had never lived in one house longer than two years. By the time I was 18, I had lived in five different states and attended eight different schools. Being the eternal optimist I tried to see the benefit in this. I decided that it had made me flexible, which it had. It taught me that there are options. I believe it helped me be a “big picture” person because I had not been limited by geography and could understand there was more beyond the horizon than just a setting sun. What I learned from moving is that I can initiate change. I am never stuck.
When I was 39, Susie and I bought our house on Central Pike and I am now in my fifth spring here. As odd as it sounds, I have learned that trees really do grow. I remember when we first moved in and the tippy-top of one tree was even with the railing of the second-story deck. It’s now a good eight feet higher than the deck. Trees grow. Who knew? In constant motion, I had never seen that miracle of nature.
Some trees died in the drought last year and we’ve cut them down. The half-dead sycamore lost a few big limbs in the last storm. The rhododendrons were eaten by the deer last fall. New rose bushes line the driveway and non-stop begonias welcome visitors at the front door. I suppose I would have believed you if you said that a yard would change over time. I just never knew how drastically.
Until I stopped moving, I never truly knew that change existed whether someone initiated it or not. It is not a “something” that happens, an event separate from other events. Change is inherent in the very nature of nature. It is the action mechanism of all life energy. It happens continuously and creates a chain reaction from micro to macro, from conscious thought to internalization, from feeling to spiritual knowing. It is the energy of our cells, the perpetuation of a forest, the erosive carving of a river, the journey to our own center.
And it is best observed when we sit still.
Deb Moore 