Sunday, April 26, 2009

The Blossoming



Overnight, the cherry tree has blossomed.  Next year, I would like to, somehow, know the night that this will happen and set out the Adirondack chairs, with their accompanying table, near the tree.  The sun will be setting and ML and I will take our places and await the grand opening. 

The light will be changing, deepening, and all the birds will be saying goodnight to each other.  The shapes of the trees and the houses nearby, and the mountains to the west, will be taking on new meaning and character.  My car, outside the garage, will begin dreaming of long, curving stretches of blacktop, with the radio fulfilling its purpose and the air rushing by, as it exercises all cylinders.

ML and I will toast each other and quietly discuss the day’s events and thoughts.  We will review the conditions of the children and our friends.  We will count our blessings, as the moon rises behind us, and this new light will allow a different type of observation to begin.

The first star will introduce itself and give us a minute to compose our wishes.  For a while, we will both be lost in our own thoughts, a quiet review, and an anticipation of things to come, a silent thank you, radiating outwards from our soft hearts.

Down by the road, a coyote will warble or call or howl or however you want to characterize it.  In fact, it isn’t any of those, but simply his sound, his expression, just like our conversation, but his is intended for a more widespread audience.  The owls in the neighborhood will exchange the who-whos that signal the beginning of their day.

Like a tide, immeasurable and inevitable, the light will change, the night progress, and all the rushing around, the activity, the competing thoughts of the day will settle, slowly, and a calm will come over everything.  This calm will feel like an almost tangible addition to the darkened, quieted, yet incredibly alive moment, near the tree.  Our patient hearts will begin to fill with anticipation.

As the moon finishes its glide, to a point almost directly overhead, an overture, like the buzz before a show, will begin.  There will be a slight breeze through the warm night.   And, then, all of us – ML, myself, the flowers at our feet, the stars shining down, from above, on all of us, animal, vegetable, and mineral – will be able to feel the moment when it begins: that first blossom.  There, on the left, about halfway up.  Or, no, near the bottom, over there.   Before we can decide which was actually first, it ‘s happening all over. 

A song, part lullaby, part hymn, part love song, is being sung.  The blossoms swell the chorus.  This is a performance, but also an experience of exultation for each blossom and, ultimately, for the entire tree.  It is a living, breathing expression, a celebration of its own being, its history, its future and its innermost existence.

Everything is hushed and attentive.  The blossoming continues until completion and, then, in a rush of emotion and appreciation, ML and I rise out of our chairs, applauding.  I hear the coyotes and the owls adding their praise.  A noise bursts out of my mouth that takes me by surprise, an inarticulate sound of connection.  ML begins to whistle and stamp her feet.  It’s a beautiful moment.

First, one and, then, two windows light up in the neighbor’s house.  I look across the street and see one there.  ML and I hug, beam at the tree and its individual decorations, alive with purpose, out and about for the season, and turn toward the house and our beds.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Invisible Tibet


It’s a time of give and take. A time of growing pains. (Always true. Always.)

One of the great things about the present moment is that we can be aware of what happens on the other side of the globe. And, instantly. News travels fast. And, not just the headlines.


We now have the ability to become aware of a new development, the creation of an idea, a poem, a melody, and we can instantly comment on, add to, and/or be inspired by these. There is a cyber-democracy that is settling, like a light spring rain, on all of us, the participants of life.


In today’s New York Times, there is an article about a woman, Tsering Woeser, living in China, who is half-Chinese and half-Tibetan. She is blogging her views of the situation between her two countries. The headline is, A Tibetan Blogger, Always Under Close Watch, Struggles For Visibility.


http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world

As has always been true, the visibility (and availability) of truth has always been its best defense.

It is becoming much more difficult for someone to silence the opposition. Now, both sides, and everything in between, can be heard.


We can support this by placing our attention on those who are threatened, allowing for the safety of individuals, the education of others, and a chance for democratic change, rather than control by those in power, or those with the larger stick, or those, through their control of the media, who twist the dialogue of the moment to their own ends.


Ms. Woeser and countless others like her, are out there, shining a light on actions that may pass unnoticed by a busy, chaotic, and often resigned and overwhelmed world. They are inviting us to pay attention to and become aware of what is happening around and to us. They are bravely speaking out and hoping we will listen.


Exercise your independence by your act of attention. Each computer hit moves Ms. Woeser and our future closer to real communication and responsible movement forward in time.


The Times article - http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world


Ms. Woeser’s blog, Invisible Tibet -
http://woeser.middle-way.net/