Softness

There is a certain softness in slow living. It is as if grains of sand have worn down the edges of the day. I look out into my yard from my recuperation sofa and I see the white pine I planted a few years back...its needles sweeping the breeze, so soft you could use them for bedding. Just imagine the dreams that would come your way, wrapped in that piney fragrance.

Even these spruce cones have a softness to them.

The sedum and the Queen Anne's lace are in full bloom with cottony clouds of pink and white offering good things to the bees. Even the raindrops, which have appeared just as I begin to write, have no urgency.

And who is enjoying these softened days most of all?  My dogs! Curled at my feet and on the sofa next to me, they remind me of a favorite poem Mary Oliver wrote in honor of her pet, Percy. She's written many. This one ends,

"And next to me,
tucked down his curly head
and, sweet as a flower, slept."

Softness is about yielding to whatever harshness or sharpness there might be. It is about giving way so that better things may happen. It is about turning the other cheek. About whispers that speak louder than shouts.

During these days of recovery, I have to constantly remind myself that I chose this. That I knew going in that I'd experience a down time...a period of inactivity and softness so that I may soon be able again walk down to Quarton pond, to ride my bicycle into town. Remember?

Tempo and the Honey Bee

A bumblebee visits the anemones in my front yard.

If there is one thing Nature excels at, it is keeping tempo. Maintaining a rhythm. A steady and predictable beat. The tides, the phases of the moon, the whispers of wind, the cycles of night into day all maintain an ebb and flow that we can count on.

Furthermore, the tempo is sustainable. Nature knows when to exert energy and when to hold off, so that its efforts are efficient.

This bumble bee is beginning the afternoon's forage so his pollen buckets are still empty

Another example so evident in late summer are the bumblebees. This time of year they are almost manic in their search for nectar.  "Busy as bees," you might say. Their hips are so laden with pollen I don't know how they can stay airborne and yet they continue darting from bloom to bloom, as if they will never find another one.

Until the temperature drops. Then they are paralyzed in time, as if some invisible force has pressed them in place. I find them on these cool, late summer mornings still perched on a flower petal, but motionless.

This anemone bud has opened just enough to allow room for a bee to poke inside.

It is difficult for me to stay still, too. Having just had my right hip replaced, I am even more aware of the manic pace I usually keep during the summer months when the long days entice me to add multiple activities to my calendar.

Now it is as if a giant hand has landed on my shoulder and forced me to the sofa where I lay while my hip heals. With my shadow, Maxi, constantly at my side, I try to avoid thinking of what I should be doing.

Because I can't.

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