Presence, practice, presents

The orange pumpkins are gone from the “back yard," presumably consumed by deer. Smaller ponds are once again ice covered, maybe this time to stay until spring, maybe not. Most trees are now not much more than bare, wind-blown branches. The Better Half and I foraged some fresh, leafless, winterberry branches this morning. They look very wabi-sabi like in a ceramic vase on top of a stereo speaker.

We avoided Black Friday and celebrated Buy Nothing Day yesterday. It felt good. There will be presents exchanged at Christmas, but we’ll do our best to avoid seasonal madness in favor of peace, quiet, nature and family. If that seems unpatriotic somehow, please consider this recent headline: World stands on frontline of disaster at Cop28, says UN climate chief.

Christmas cookies: presence making presents

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you every thought about the idea that time spent wishing and working for something new and/or improved is time not spent enjoying what you now have? I had to face that kind of question not long ago when I was reading one of Tom Rosenbauer’s books on fly fishing and he noted something I’ve avoided: “Practice casting no matter what you do.” In younger days, I fished often enough that I didn’t need to practice. Now, not so much. Practicing casting isn’t dependent on buying another rod, reel, line, etc. I’m going through similar adjustment with my sourdough bread baking and my writing. Reading and thinking about things is a start (and helps sell books) but doing something, practicing something, necessitates spending time more than money.

Life Cycle of Common Man

By Howard Nemerov

Roughly figured, this man of moderate habits,

This average consumer of the middle class,

Consumed in the course of his average life span

Just under half a million cigarettes,

Four thousand fifths of gin and about

A quarter as much vermouth; he drank

Maybe a hundred thousand cups of coffee,

And counting his parents’ share it cost

Something like half a million dollars

To put him through life. How many beasts

Died to provide him with meat, belt and shoes

Cannot be certainly said.

                                     But anyhow,

It is in this way that a man travels through time,

Leaving behind him a lengthening trail

Of empty bottles and bones, of broken shoes,

Frayed collars and worn out or outgrown

Diapers and dinnerjackets, silk ties and slickers.

Given the energy and security thus achieved,

He did . . . ? What? The usual things, of course,

The eating, dreaming, drinking and begetting,

And he worked for the money which was to pay

For the eating, et cetera, which were necessary

If he were to go on working for the money, et cetera,

But chiefly he talked. As the bottles and bones

Accumulated behind him, the words proceeded

Steadily from the front of his face as he

Advanced into the silence and made it verbal.

Who can tally the tale of his words? A lifetime

Would barely suffice for their repetition;

If you merely printed all his commas the result

Would be a very large volume, and the number of times

He said “thank you” or “very little sugar, please,”

Would stagger the imagination. There were also

Witticisms, platitudes, and statements beginning

“It seems to me” or “As I always say.”

Consider the courage in all that, and behold the man

Walking into deep silence, with the ectoplastic

Cartoon’s balloon of speech proceeding

Steadily out of the front of his face, the words

Borne along on the breath which is his spirit

Telling the numberless tale of his untold Word

Which makes the world his apple, and forces him to eat.

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