Our Time on Earth

What is our life on earth,
if not disovering, becoming conscious of,
penetrating, contemplating, accepting,
loving this mystery of God,
the unique reality that surrounds us,
and in which we are immersed
like meteorites in space?

Carlo Carretto

Indeed, what is our life on earth
   if not doing such things
      at least part of the time we’re here?
For me, Carretto’s words issue
   a continual wake-up call.
So much of the time
   I spend large parts of my days
      formulating my life on this earth
         by other standards:
   using my time “well,”
      getting projects done and done right,
         figuring out what lies ahead,
            protecting myself against eventualities.
My gerunds convict me:
   “using,” “getting,” “protecting.”
Corretto’s gerunds are entirely different:
   “becoming conscious,” “contemplating,” “loving.”
While I too easily focus on my small world,
   Carretto invites us to spend our time on earth
      pondering “the unique reality which surrounds us,
   and in which we are immersed
       like meteorites in space.”
He doesn’t tell us how to do that.
I believe one important way,
   one unbeatable way,
      is to take the time to see,
         every day.
To really, really see.

Again

I had been here before.
Last December 6th, to be exact.
That day’s entry in this photoblog demonstrates this.
A couple of mornings ago I stood in the same place
   where I stood when it was a different season.
There was much less color two days ago
   than ten weeks ago.
But who’s to say the present colors
   are any less notable,
      any less memorable,
         any less lovely in their own way?
Fewer signs of life are seen here today.
But who’s to say that signs of life
   have anything at all to do
      with the reality of life,
         the underlying sureness of life?
A hint of mystery was there in December,
   and it also crouches here in February.
“Created Wonder” it called itself then.
It goes by the same name today.

Hoarfrost

A cold holds me hostage.
Last night I slept half sitting up
   in order to breathe more easily.
Opening the window shades this morning,
   I saw what I feared I would see:
      the weather forecast had been correct.
A heavy fog waited outside.
Hoarfrost hung everywhere.
There was nothing to decide
   because there was no question what I would do.
I showered, dressed, slung my camera over my shoulder,
   and drove a short distance into the country.
I trudged through drifts deeper than my boots.
I knelt in snow banks to get closer
   to what I wanted to inspect.
I stopped time after time
   and listened to the clear silence,
      interrupted only by the click of my shutter.
Walking in the dampness and snow and fog,
   surrounded by the day’s mysterious wrapping,
      did more good for me than staying at home in bed.
Morning cold can be good medicine for colds in the morning.

Nothing Else

As to me, I know
of nothing else but miracles.
Walt Whitman

Autumn morning:
   miracle.
Diaphonous fog:
   miracle.
Color-drenched trees:
   miracle.
Being given eyes to see this:
   miracle.
Being given the privilege of photographing this:
   nothing else but miracle.

Self-appointed Inspector

For many years I was the self-appointed
inspector of snowstorms and rainstorms
and did my duty faithfully,
though I never received payment for it.
Henry David Thoreau

I’ve become a self-appointed inspector too.
Many of us have.
For me it all began one Saturday morning,
   after receiving a surprise birthday gift the evening before:
      my first good camera, a Nikkormat.
I appointed myself to inspect a bed of chrysanthemums
   in a nearby public park.
Thirty-six exposures, one pretty much like the next.
In time I went on to inspect
   hundreds of varieties of flowers, jillions of weeds,
         a gazillion trees, and a landscape or two.
I’ve single-handedly inspected
   sand, stones, rocks, boulders,
      streams, rivers, lakes, oceans,
   fields, plains, deserts, valleys,
      paths, roads, lanes, labyrinths,
   clouds, sky, rain, snow, ice,
      and my full allotment of dandelions.
All faithfully inspected, just like Thoreau,
   all self-appointed, like Thoreau,
      and all without payment, as with Thoreau.
Except, as any contemplative photographer knows,
   the payment in reality has always been there,
      and it’s been sizable.
Quite sizable.