For Real

There is a large empty lot behind my apartment barracaded by temporary chain-link fences. I assume someone started building there and then ran out of money. It's grown over with weeds and were it not for the carefully planned and fairly well-kept apartment complexes around it, it could be taken as a set of an end-of-the world film.

Anyway, as I was walking home tonight, I saw what I thought was a bird flying above it. As I got closer, it turned out to be a radio controlled toy airplane. The scene seemed very dramatic--the sun setting on what could be a war zone infiltrated by the buzz of this toy whose real-life counterpart would belong in a real-life war.

The situation and this way I happened to percieve it made me think about the contexts in which real and fake overlap. As children, we play to practice for real events later in life. Even as adults, we sometimes give life to inanimate objects for sentimental or other reasons. Then of course there are movies, books, and websites that give us virtual access to real things that we may or may not actually encounter later.

When I first arrived in the Caribbean and we went to the beach, I remarked that it was so unreal I couldn't appreciate it. If I had never seen pictures or movies depicting a tropical lanscape, perhaps my reaction would have been different. But I don't know, because we live in a world where virtual versions of nearly every experience exist.

Is there value in both the actual and artificial? Of course. So I think the question is where is the line? What things are okay to experience virtually and which ones do we need to live through for real? As a note to the universe, I'm fine continuing to appreciate the buzz of toy airplanes in a pretend war zone.

Like Water over Sharp Rocks

From Rock Series, acrylic and mixed media, 2008

I had a rock collection growing up. I kept it in a tin can under the stairs in our basement. None of my finds were geologically significant, though I thought they were. The most valuable rocks were the polished ones. Most of my polished rocks came from various souvenir stores--the stuff-as-many-as-you-can-into-a-little-black-bag kind. One of them I found in the creek behind our house. While it is very likely that this particular rock came from a souvenir stash upstream, I chose to believe it had been polished the hard way, over thousands of years, molecule by molecule.

For some reason, the rock I found in the creek meant more. It had the same surface quality as the others, but as in most aspects of life, there seems to be value in doing things the slow way.

Today I heard someone use the phrase "like water over sharp rocks" in describing changes that had taken place in her friend's life. I like that. Like water over sharp rocks, atoms of hydrogen over atoms of carbon, your rough edges and mine are being refined. Over time we will become the best versions of ourselves--still individual, unique, identifiable--but able to shine with a raidance only achieved by years of almost indiscernable changes.

By the way, my chamomile plants sprouted. As of the last ten minutes, there is no apparent growth.

Inability to Wait

For a class assignment last fall, I was supposed to grow a plant. It failed. Twice. So now that it's spring and I have some extra time, I decided to try again in an effort redeem my honor as a gardener and also to have something to do. I planted some seeds last saturday--chamomile and green beans. And they still haven't grown. I know the germination period is 6-8 days, but I thought nature would make an exception for me. I keep peeking out the window, trying not to let anyone know that I'm actually expecting anything from the containers of dirt on the porch. I check the soil moisture a few times each day and make sure it's getting the maximum amount of sunlight possible. But I still have to wait. And apparently I'm not very good at it.

But Then

It seems like this spring has been one of the most dynamic ever. I leave in the morning wearing shorts and sandals in blind optimism and come home cold and wet. Rain, then hail, then wind, even snow take the place of expected sunshine for weeks on end. But then I walk outside to the most substantial, glowing, magnificent clouds I have ever seen. The sky is brighter and deeper and the mountains, dusted with snow, shine against it. The colors of the sunlight separate into rainbows that span the entire sky. For a short moment I wonder if it's worth it--if this brilliant scene is worth the the unpredictability, the threat of storms, the wet feet and the changes of plan. But it's almost not a question because the answer comes without hesitation: unequivocally yes, of course it is.

The Good Things Habit

I did a lot of cleaning and organizing this weekend, mostly because it's hard for me to stop cleaning once I begin. I felt like an addict tonight--

Self(1):"It's just dusting the door jams"
Self(2):"Well, it was just scrubbing the shower. Then it was just cleaning the cupboards. When is it going to end?"

(Note: It is yet to be determined whether the talking to myself is cleaning-product-fume induced.)

Anyway, the organizing bug spread to my computer, and I started sorting through my documents. To illustrate the overwhelming nature of this task, I have around 5,000 items, including a folder entitled "Misc" and another entitled "Miscellaneous." If there is a distinction between the two, I don't know what it is. Especially since the files in these folders have names like "pizza" or, even better, "10-08-07."

One of these ambiguously named files is "good things," which turns out to be a list of at least three good things that happened each day over a two-month period. I made a habit of noticing and remembering good things--from deep talks with friends to a guy dancing like a ballerina at the bus stop--and then recording them.

One of the catch-phrases of my favorite tv show is "I hope you find what you're looking for." In my experience, finding what you're looking for is the easy part. The trick is to look for the right things. If we look for dust on the doorjams, we'll find it. If we look for the worst parts of ourselves and others, it will be nearly impossible to see the best. On the other hand, if we look for the best parts of ourselves, for the funny, joyful, and beautiful things in the world, I'm pretty sure that they will fill up our lives and we will not have any energy left for pessimism.

Self(1): "I think I'm going to pick that habit back up."
Self(2): "I think that's a good thing."

Just a Good Song

From Postal Service's "Sleeping in":

"Last night I had that strange dream
Where everything was exactly as it seemed
Where concerns about the world getting warmer
the people thought they were just being rewarded
for treating others as they'd like to be treated
obeying stop signs and curing diseases
for mailing letters with the address of the sender
now we can swim any day in November."

I don't know if it's the simplicity of seeing everything at face value or the beauty of making the best out of situations we can't control. But I just love this song.

The Permanence of Temporary Experiences

I went to Moab last weekend. Sitting on a rock above Upheaval Dome in Canyonlands and listening to the "profound silence echoing off the canyon walls" (not my words), I realized that I was in a place where you can't pretend to be anything you're not--a place where you want to stand on top of a plateau and smile into the sunshine or be buried underneath it.

I found myself wishing every day was like that day--being with friends, hiking in the morning and rafting in the afternoon. I found myself wishing I could always be in a place whose vastness reminds me that I am not the center of the universe.

I teach a watercolor class, and last night one of my students pointed out that any beauty we add to the world--in the form of art, gardening, music, or whatever--is added for good. Even if we throw the painting away or rip up the garden, that positive energy cannot be removed.

I buy it. I think we have to believe that the good we do for the world has permanence or life seems futile. As an extension of that thought, I would submit that any beauty we add to ourselves also stays with us. Not in a way that we don't have to constantly add to it, but in a way that temporary experiences have a lasting effect upon our souls.

So I say listen to the silence, smile into the sunshine, and let it fuel you through the less beautiful parts of life.