It’s not that these transient pleasures, like a cheese sandwich or a dog walk or the phoebes, in and of themselves bring genuine happiness. It’s that appreciating the simple pleasures of a complex world, among my confounding species, on this fragile planet, imbues life with contentment for me. I finally feel as safe as is humanly possible, walking out here on the edge of impermanence, after all those years chasing certainty and running from death.
I woke feeling sad, after yesterday’s descent into the stark reality of climate chaos. I thought I might feel sad forever. I’m grateful I’ve learned to accept sadness, and impermanence: I’m grateful for allowing things to be as they are in each moment, and for the reassuring knowledge that everything changes, nothing remains the same for long.
Nothing external has changed, of course: insects are still in decline worldwide. But I trudged out on this crisp, damp morning with Stellar and Topaz by my side, and strolled to visit this split tree. I felt better already, just letting myself be sad, and finding beauty at the same time, balancing grief and gratitude within equanimity.
And then there’s the cheese sandwich, cookout edition. I’ve been thinking about this for days. I had frozen a hot dog leftover from Michael’s memorial, which I thawed and sliced. All the hot dog condiments slathered on wheat bread, sliced cheddar, and potato chips completed the assemblage: a whole cookout in a single sandwich. Yes, it’s a temporary pleasure, lasting only as long as the sandwich itself; but, the making of it, the thinking it up, and definitely the eating of it, all while remembering Michael and last week’s party, lifted my spirits. Life’s simple pleasures. I’m grateful that my life includes the conditions to have on hand all the ingredients of a cheese sandwich, the technology to keep them fresh, the leisure to dream about then make one, the awareness to savor the process and every bite, and the reasonable expectation that I will eat again tomorrow.
Despite this climate-chaos induced exceptional drought, the indomitable will to live that permeates all plants and animals keeps us living to our utmost. I am grateful for the resilience of Life.
At last! Though probably barely measurable, we have rain. I’m grateful for a little rain with a lot of thunder and lightning.
I’m grateful for every little thing about this day, starting with I woke up alive, and relatively pain free. From there, anything else is gravy. I didn’t do much today. I didn’t even think or feel much. I’m on staycation. But I paid attention to the phoebes, the jays, the magpies; to weather, lightning, potential rain; to nutrition, mine and others. I paid attention to the moment as consistently as I could, and remembered quite often to breathe, or rather, to notice my breath, each inhalation, each exhalation, the exact conditions of the body at the time. I’m grateful for each breath that allowed me to read some things, to watch some TV: I’m grateful for things to read and TV to watch, and various individuals who make those entertainments possible. I’m grateful for these five or six senses that let me make sense of, or at least interpret, the world outside this body-mind.
Yesterday I felt glum. I may have spoken too soon, expressing gratitude that both phoebe parents were alive. All day long the chicks screeched non-stop, while only one parent came to feed them, instead of two flying back and forth as they had been. It seemed like an hour at a time went by without anyone stuffing a mouth. When it cooled off, I sat outside and timed it, and there were intervals as long as 20 minutes while the babies cried before someone came to feed one. I wondered many things: was one parent killed by a falcon? or a cat? had one simply quit? was the other one out searching for its mate and just coming back intermittently with a token dragonfly or cricket? would the chicks survive? should I buy mealworms? Or, was I misperceiving reality?
I’m grateful to Deb for checking on the mealworm supply in town this morning, and grateful that they didn’t seem to be needed after all. Today, it still seems only one parent is feeding, but at least it’s more frequent, and the babies are full enough to fall asleep between bugs.
But what is happening? It’s a mystery, compounded by the fact that this evening I saw two perfectly-adult-looking phoebes land in the apricot tree, and one fed the other a grasshopper. Is one phoebe parent still out feeding some from the first clutch? maybe that last straggler out of the nest? Or, did one parent run off to court a new mate? Or, were those two grown chicks from the first clutch, courting, playing, or practicing? And, how does this situation relate to what I observed a few days ago, two phoebes chasing one another through the junipers?
I’m grateful for how the mystery of nature piques my curiosity, and grateful that I’m not attached to knowing answers. I’m grateful the babies seem to be getting enough food again after yesterday’s mysterious, vociferous hunger. I’ll be grateful tomorrow if I wake up alive and get to watch the phoebe mystery further unfold.
Grateful for another sunset, another fulfilling, exhausting day in fellowship with the kindest, most mindful people I know. Two-thirds through our graduation retreat, twelve hours each day together virtually yet meaningfully, sharing lessons, learnings, creativity, and cultivating heartfelt connection with people across the country and a world away. Grateful for one of the most transformative experiences of my short life, this past Mindful Learning Year. Grateful for another day with dear Stellar still moving pretty well, and another precious day of relative safety here, while fires ravage the land elsewhere and paint the sun orange again.
The Bibliofillies met for the first time in person since March 2020 tonight on my patio. I had planned to make a light supper for the nine of us, but realized last week when I got the brace on that that wasn’t going to work out. So I asked if we could do a potluck instead, and my wonderful fillies came through like the stars they are, with numerous salads and curried egg salad toasts and homemade pistachio gelato and cupcakes from Blue Sky Baking Company. It was a glorious, balmy evening full of joyful connection, and thoughtful conversation about the book I’d chosen, Klara and the Sun by Nobel laureate Kazuo Ishiguro. Nobody liked it as well as I did, but the most controversial books usually stimulate the best discussion.
I’m so grateful for our book club! We steadfastly continued to meet through the pandemic via Zoom, and will likely return to that format as this illusory window of normalcy closes on the inevitable Delta variant in our predictably low-vaccinated county. And I’m grateful when we have visitors who have taken the time to also ‘consume’ the book. We discussed whether, if you listen to a book is it still called reading? I think so, but we tossed around some other possible words.
I’m also grateful for my stoic, resilient Stellar Stardog Son of Sundog, who’s been having a good week, so we’ve taken incrementally longer walks each day, shortly after sunrise while it’s still delightful cool. I’m grateful for cool nights. I’m grateful for cool, smooth sheets at the end of a fulfilling day. I wish similar comfort for you.
I love a good story. I’m grateful for all the stories I have access to in this life, and the ability to choose which stories I watch or read or listen to, or participate in. I’m grateful for happy and sad stories, and stories which explore and elucidate all the states between in all their complex interconnectedness. I’ve loved stories all my life, as long as I can remember. The story that held my attention today was The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. I’m grateful that a friend reminded me yesterday about this iconic 1994 Australian film, which I watched when it first came out, as a Paradise Theater Cabin Fever Flim. I love it even more decades later, with all the mindfulness training and drag education that came in between. I’m grateful for the ability to watch it or almost any movie I could wish to with the click of a few keys and maybe a few dollars.
I’m grateful that pop culture, despite strongholds of bigotry, has caught on to the desperate joie de vivre of drag culture, which this moving story expresses so vividly. I’m grateful for the layers of story within this story, including the story of the Australian landscape with insects and reptiles, rocks and canyons, as well as various peoples. I’m grateful to see this excellent early work from fine actors Hugo Weaving and Guy Pearse, knowing them now from later more macho roles as Elrond in Lord of the Rings and Jack Irish respectively. I’m grateful for the mind-opening Priscilla gave me decades ago, and for every mind that continues to open through experiencing art.
I don’t have a picture. It happened too fast. This morning we were rambling through the woods, off the main trail, Stellar about two feet ahead of me. He practically stepped on and then stopped and stuck his nose into what I thought was a tiny dead spotted fawn curled up under a tree. I don’t know what happened first. If I hadn’t yelled, “Stellar, leave it!” the fawn might have just lain there. But it seemed like the same instant I called out, the fawn burst up and leapt away, startling both of us. A couple of yards away as it flew the fawn almost trampled Topaz; it screamed (a tiny little scream) and did a half-cartwheel, knocked against some small limbs, leapt a down log, and quickly disappeared.
Topaz followed it with her intent gaze, and though I looked I could no longer see it. I think she could, and I think it didn’t run far. We all three stood there for a few minutes to catch our breath. Then I asked Siri, “What happens when a fawn gets spooked?” seeking some reassurance that it would be fine.
None of Siri’s answers related to a fawn, and were along the lines of “Afraid of your phone? Here’s how to overcome that fear.”
So I tried again, spelling FAWN, and Siri directed me to a number of options which all told me not to disturb a fawn. Too late for that! But one of them did say, if I had removed a fawn from where I found it hiding, to return it to the same area and its mother would come searching for it. So I set aside my anxiety, trusting in the strong maternal bond to reunite the pair, and we rambled on our way. I’m grateful for spotted fawns, for seeing one so tiny so close, so fast and strong.