A question of focus

If there’s a name for the shade between gray and white, that’s what this afternoon’s sky is. No sun, no blue, flat wall-to-wall cloud cover that would be worse if it were snowing, but is gloomy all by itself. That means I can add joy at the return of the sun by Thanksgiving to things to be thankful for come Thursday. Meanwhile, we continue to add bit by bit to seasonal decor. Icicle lights are on the garage, greenery and angels highlight the front porch/stoop. The Better Half has put a sparkly red and green bouquet behind her seat. Two of the green bulbs in it look like the eyes of an alien monster about to leap on her from behind. I haven’t yet mentioned that to her. (shh!)

a new November day dawns

Photo by J. Harrington

It is waay too early in the season, and the weather hasn’t been that bad, but I'm showing signs of early onset cabin fever. It’s almost like having an anti-Goldilocks syndrome, “this one’s too big, this one’s too little, and none are just right!” This is no doubt what I get for trying to keep up on world affairs and maintain a modicum of presence on social media. Week after week after week It’s Good News Week! [click the link and see that ennui and sarcasm have been with US since at least 1965]

But, I have dough rising in the warming room [upstairs bathroom with the door closed]. Tomorrow, if all goes well, will be bread baking day. Before the weather turns too cold I need to get the back blade on the tractor. Tomorrow or Wednesday look like likely candidates. Wednesday the latest Carrie Newcomer album is scheduled to arrive, and Thursday's Thanksgiving day. Maybe the source of my discontent isn’t so much the state of the world as it is the state of my expectations. I’m going to look around and see if they can be lowered a little more without triggering unintended consequences.

Gratitude

by Mary Oliver

What did you notice?

The dew-snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.

What did you hear?

The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

When did you admire?

The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

What astonished you?

The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.

What would you like to see again?

My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue,
her recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness,
her strong legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

What was most tender?

Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?

The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.

What did you think was happening?

The green beast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

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