Frank begins by quoting the poet William Blake, wondering whether we really can “see the Universe in a grain of sand”. This is a piece you really should listen to.
Through the lens of
science we can see how even the smallest thing can be a gateway to
an experience of the extraordinary, if only we can practice noticing.
We walk past a thousand,
thousand natural miracles every day, from the sun climbing in the sky to the
arc of birds seen out our windows. Those miracles are there waiting for us to
see them, to notice them and, most importantly, to find our delight in theirs.
As I was listening to this during the drive home
from a hectic day at work, I noticed the stormy midnight blue sky to the north,
illuminated by a sun low in the sky. As
if this wasn’t dramatic enough, a white flash in the corn field to the left caught
my attention – a mature bald eagle on a deer carcass; most drivers were speeding
along too quickly to notice.
Coincidence? Good timing? Luck? Or
was I simply encouraged by Frank to notice – the miracles in nature that
are always there if we only take time to pay attention.
With this inspiration, despite having way too much
work and too little time to meet some deadlines, I chose to take a long walk
when I got home. Nothing unusual at
first – squawking crows coming in to roost for the night, the gray tones of
late winter in the woods behind my home, juncos flitting up from the ground, lots
of mud interrupted by a few stubborn patches of snow refusing to say
goodbye.
Suddenly, an unanticipated cloudburst began pummeling
me with icy droplets. But these drops had
the fresh cleansing smell of a spring rain.
There were new holes from the resident Pileated Woodpeckers; another
tree is being dismantled by a porcupine, I presume. And on the ground, thousands of tiny
Collembola, difficult to distinguish from the fungal spots on decaying leaves,
except that they spring up – a bit like Mexican jumping beans, but much tinier. Are they startled by my footsteps or the
raindrops?
Coming down the hill and out of the woods, the
setting sun was illuminating the treetops, and I noticed the red and green tinge
of color. Leaf buds peering out from the
protective scales to see if the day length is long enough to signal spring. On top of the mountain, the white is still
snow, not the flowers of Service
Berry (Amelanchier sp.), but these will appear soon. A
friend today reported hearing the first Phoebe of the season. As I walked to the house, I saw crocus
flowers that weren’t out just two days ago during a late snow storm, along with fresh buds
on my Hellebore.
Again, from Frank’s essay:
The connection between
the everyday reality we experience and boundless landscapes of cosmic beauty,
inspiration and joy is actually so close, so present for us. It’s there in the
dust on your car, the mess on your desk and the swirling water in your sink.
I really look forward to listening to his future
essays.
