double take
Yesterday, already behind schedule for the morning, I emerged from the house to find my car completely covered … with caterpillar poop. My parking space is beneath a large maple tree inhabited, it would seem, by thousands of inchworms. And the tiny black pellets don’t just brush off. Oh no — they stick like tar.
Add to this the fact that it’s been overcast or raining for more than a week now. And last night’s downpour only made matters worse, turning the worm poop into a tenacious sludge that now also filled the rubber ravines around all of the door seals.
For weeks before this, the car was buried daily beneath a clogging downpour of yellow buds from the same maple.
I got in and maneuvered the muck-mobile closer to the hose then, using the highest pressure the nozzle afforded, I did my best to power wash the goop away.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. This was all making me even later.
As I worked my way around the car, I noticed the state of the gravel drive. Mostly mud now. Large sections of the gravel had been scraped away during the winter by careless plowmen, and now lay choking out the grass to one side of the lot.
On the other side, the hedgerow was already becoming straggly; and underneath, weeds had sprung up and were beginning to entangle themselves with the good growth.
One more turn revealed a gutter broken from winter ice and a wide crack in one of the eaves, the latter of which may be the nesting place of the flying ants that have been invading the kitchen and living room — even the bedroom — of late.
Double take
I’ve loved having the windows open again, feeling the cross breeze as it flirts with the sheer white curtains I chose for just that purpose.
The rain we’ve gotten has left the yard and town a verdant green. And the peepers have begun their nightly chorus.
As I hosed off the car, I could pick out no fewer than 10 different bird calls from the surrounding woods. Recently, I’d learned to identify a chickadee by sight and sound, and I smiled at the fact that it was now so obvious. In fact, I was able to add to the list a host of others before the day was out: mourning doves, cardinals, jays, goldfinches, titmice and wrens. And that feeling of curiosity that leads to learning makes me feel alive.
Each of those turns around my car as I cleaned it off (which took perhaps five minutes), I saw beauty. Yes, the gravel has been removed from parts of the lot; but that is the same area where, at any given time, I can watch a dozen or more species gathered around the bird feeders.
I love my apartment. It really does feel like a Paris flat or a vacation home on Cape Cod. And I never lose sight of the fact that the landlord, Judy, allowed me — a stranger — to move in by reducing her original rent request by $100 a month. I get along great with her daughter who lives downstairs and acts as property manager. And she takes care of any issues that arise quickly and happily. As soon as she noticed the broken trim, she was seeking a contractor. She had a specialist here this week to figure out the flying ant issue. And she really does keep up with the hedges, which just happen to grow quickly with lots of rain.
By the front porch, a cluster of purple flowers is growing. My neighbor, who had also educated me on the bird calls, informed me that the previously unknown plant was purple ajuga.
One more turn revealed the pink and white dogwood in full bloom, stretching to form an archway over the drive — a living painting more spectacular than any Thomas Kinkade.
*****
Everything that I described in both narratives above is 100% true. Moreover, both descriptions are equally accurate.
I was keenly aware this morning of the choices I faced regarding where I focused my attention, and of the way in which those choices would shape the rest of my day. It felt somehow surreal, a superimposing of alternate realities — or, perhaps better stated, simultaneous realities. I could feel my internal lens adjusting, causing some elements to blur and fade into the background, while others loomed larger, gaining clarity.
We are not passive bystanders. Each of us is an active participant, creating the images and moods that fill our frame. There is no paint-by-number, no auto-focus to the mind’s eye.
Just as with any artist, what winds up on the canvas of our lives is a matter of perspective combined with the choices we make along the way.
So true… and also I am often reminded that when things take a foul turn, we can and do have the ability to turn our focus elsewhere, the birds, the green, the ajuga. When steeped within the foul, it can take a wee bit more effort, perhaps music to change our focus. But you are right, ultimately it’s in our court. How fortunate we are:)
Yes, when “yuck” has already taken hold or lasted a long time, it can definitely take more effort to focus on the good around us (which is always there). I always think back to when you said that if you were in a tiny prison cell with a dirt floor, you’d somehow find a way to wait for a seed to blow in and plant a garden in the corner.
Yes, we choose the persepective from which we view the world and it takes only the smallest shift sometimes to switch the lights on 🙂
It’s almost magical. 😉
I think so 🙂
Lovely post, Erik. It’s pretty easy to make those shifts when out in nature where everything is just as it should be and all part of the glorious whole. Even the caterpillar poop was in a way, a gift. Ha ha. Your glass is far more than half-full, my friend.
Thanks, Diana. Your last line reminded me of the “Already Broken Glass” philosophy, which has been a go-to since having come across it. Here it is:
“You see this goblet?” asks Achaan Chaa, the Thai meditation master. “For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”
And thanks for the reminder that poop can be a gift. 😀
(BTW, your other gifts arrived today. You! Too much! I’ll drop you a personal note this evening …)
Love that philosophy. It reminds me a bit of Kintsugi: the Japanese art of recognizing beauty in broken things. 🙂
I love how well this illustrates our choices. Some days my appreciation-glasses start to slip, and I find sounds are often what brings me back to the beauty of my surroundings – a bird song, the rushing of the river, the wind in the trees, the rain hitting the roof. Little things will make me look up and look deeper and remember how right everything is even when things ‘go wrong.’
Thanks for adding “your things,” Sheri. I think we all have different ones. The person in New York or Mumbai or the Sahara must find different things that bring us back to appreciation.
Yes, I suspect there are very different ones for everyone. I hope some others will share their ‘things’ too.
Reminds me of that old XTC song “Senses Working Overtime”: “And birds might fall from black skies/And bullies might give you black eyes/And buses might skid on black ice/But to me they’re very, very beautiful.”
Wow, I don’t think I’d even have remembered that song if you hadn’t revived it, much less ever thought something I wrote would find parallels to it in someone’s mind 35 years later. Strange world. And yet … I totally get it.
It’s a little obscure, for sure. But for whatever reason, that’s what popped into my head when I read your piece! Funny what coaxes some things to the surface…
I wondered how you were going to turn caterpillar poop into a delicious blog post, and by gosh, you did it!!
P.S. For Christmas I gave my guy a ‘bird’ clock (well, really, I wanted it so I gave it to him as a gift). And he’s starting to like it. I love it – each hour shows a picture of a different bird, and when the hour strikes, that bird’s song chirps out of the clock. SOOoooo cool. I’m trying to learn the bird calls – will work on that chickadee.
I love the bird clock! (I’d totally want that.)
It’s definitely fun walking about and hearing distinguishable birds out there now. I highly recommend continuing that pursuit. Keeping our wonder limber is harder as we move out of childhood, but it’s what keeps us childlike. And that’s a great thing to be.