Most days, when I wake up, I feel like I’m on automatic
pilot. First, the alarm goes off (or not; if I’ve spoken directly to the
Universe requesting a wake-up call the night before my eyes pop open before it
rings). Second, I automatically think to myself “Oh, no. Not time to get up
already!” or “Yay! Today’s the day I’m going to the beach!” depending on
whether my plans involve work or play. Then I roll out of bed, search for my
glasses and mouth guard (a loathsome thing that’s supposed to quell my teeth-grinding,
but which I invariably throw on the floor in my sleep), grab my robe, unplug my
cellphone from its charger, and head downstairs for a cup of tea. As I said:
automatic pilot.
One recent day,
however, I decided to spend a bit more time in bed before rising. That was the
day I snapped the above picture, after noticing that the leaves of the pear
tree near my window were tapping against the pane outside the closed shade.
That morning, I spent quite a bit of time gazing and snapping photos. It was
such a pretty sight, and reminded me once again of how I tend to rush about
without really noticing the details.
Later that
day I was eating dinner with my family at the kitchen table. The curtains were
drawn because bright sunlight was streaming onto our faces, but at one point I
got up and looked outside. Just below my window were two adorable mourning
doves. They were hopping about in the grass cooing (I could hear them through
the pane). The grass was wet and green from a recent rain, and the doves seemed
playful. Once again, I was struck by the scenes that are outside my ordinary
field of vision.
This spring
an owl came to visit our home for a few days. We would hear him at 3 in the
morning, hooting in a tall tree. No amount of peering or searching brought him
to our sight, but we were alert in bed for more than an hour just listening. Deep in the night, right outside my window,
was a vast owl world unknown to me.
One day, returning home from a
local café with a cup of coffee, I went to my computer for a while, but then
got up again to check to see if a package had arrived. I’d heard a truck coming
up our hill and was curious. When I opened the door, the truck was gone and
there was no package, but a huge mound of dirt was piled up right at our front step, and there was a large open hole just beneath the foundation. A
skunk, woodchuck, or some other creature had been hard at work digging while
I’d been writing. Who knew?
Another day, I pulled open the
shade in my living room to find a dozen tall, bright yellow weeds I’d never
seen before. I snapped their photo, sadly knowing it will only be days before
my neighbor notices and mows them down.
I often
write about this sort of thing because I find it intriguing. How much goes on
while we’re not aware, not looking, or listening? I know that we can’t touch,
see, or feel every breeze, every flower, or every birdsong. But can’t we try?
