When I wake in the morning I lift my head to peer out the bedroom window across the room. What I look for is Peter’s red truck. Most mornings he is up before me, has started the coffee, and made the short trip up our long driveway to get his beloved newspaper. Some mornings he leaves early to eat breakfast out. Though I am a person who loves solitude, I am always disappointed when the truck isn’t there.
Occasionally so many things coalesce that we finally have to pay attention. As for me, I have ignored some great teachers along the way -- people like Pema Chodron, Henri Nouwen and, closer to home, Marilyn Wolff of the Servant Leadership School of Greensboro. That is a lot of wisdom to shun. I’d rather think that, all this time, their teachings were slowly seeping into me such that, one day last week, they reached a saturation point at which my whole chemistry was transformed
I was living in North Carolina when I first heard of Clyde Edgerton, but the news of his novel, “Raney,” came to me via my hometown in Arkansas. A childhood friend had written me (pre-email days) about a book she had fallen in love with. “I think the author lives near you,” my friend wrote.
We just returned from a much-needed weekend away and, as always, a house-sitter took care of things here. “Things” needing care are primarily animals, and they can be demanding -- requiring detailed instructions and a bit of finesse to keep some in and others out.
If you grew up in Hillsborough and spent some childhood time in the woods and down by the creeks, you might have spied an unusual child practicing preaching to any flora or fauna that would lend an ear.
Whenever we make a case for (or against) something we think is important, we’ll often cite a study. By referring to “studies,” we intend to use the best of the scientific method to help us make vital decisions -- often about our health.
In yoga class an instructor often invites students to set an intention for the hour ahead. The opportunity sometimes catches me off-guard, but after that initial, “Oh,” I quickly recognize what I need for the day ahead of me (calm, or forgiveness), and ask for it, or intend it. I bring that intention into the poses that comprise a yoga class, and always leave better than when I arrived.
“When you drive up to your home or workplace, what do before you go inside?” The workshop leader looked intently at the man he’d chosen to answer this question.
The first thing I didn’t post on Facebook was a picture of the snake we found on the front porch. The second photo I didn’t post was a shot of my riding helmet, half-chaps, and bridle hung together on a wrought-iron rack against rough-hewn barn wood. It looked like something staged for a magazine.
Our neighbors were selling their car and promptly had it tuned up and detailed to fetch the best price. As they drove the car home from the shop, they decided to keep driving it. The engine purred, the chrome glistened, and the stains on the upholstery had vanished. The curious presence of a “new car smell” solidified their decision.
A few weeks ago our friend Evan sat with me in the kitchen while I rustled up some food. Evan is a surgeon by day and a weekend potter. I poured something into a bowl he gave us..
I recently inflated my bike tires near the barn and none of the horses took note of the loud whooshing sound that escaped when I pulled the pump off of the valve stem. The horses kept grazing, but Peter’s spotted mule lifted his head and snorted in fear. Cledus was certain that whatever this was, it was out to get him.
The long holiday week provided us with plenty of opportunities to sit with others and talk without the usual time constraints. Our paths crossed with people young and old, the long-term loved as well as new friends with whom we assembled over meals. As we departed from the final gathering of the holiday, I pondered the art of conversation.
My last column here dealt with issues of time and busyness. I received so many heartfelt emails from readers that I want to revisit that subject and delve a little deeper than the first 675 words allowed me to do. This isn’t a subject I have mastered, but one I struggle with almost daily. Apparently I am not alone.
Once upon a time when someone asked, “How are you?” the expected answer was, “Fine.” Today, of course, the expected reply is, “Too busy,” uttered with a weary sigh and brief eye contact followed by a nod from the questioner that communicates, “Yeah, me too.” It is a moment of commiseration, for most of us are too busy.