Resetting the Lens

My view has shrunk. Although I'm aware of national and global issues (at some times hyper-aware), because of the pandemic, resultant social distancing, and previous (and future!) quarantines, my lens has been honed to local: country roads, state and city parks, backyard, front porch, office, chair.

A summer azure in the rain in July

I think time has shifted, too, and lock-down has forced me to alter the way I think.

For example, I'm noticing things right in front of my face. I am focusing on the little things, like local wildflowers. The joy of learning about fleabane has been a surprise. It has become my new favorite flower and it was everywhere, at least in May in Maryland. How could I have never noticed this before?

Fleabane in May

After eyeing it from the car and bike, I picked some (it's neither protected nor rare). I discovered how it is surprisingly soft despite the petals appearing rather pointy. And before the flowers uncurl, they look to me like miniature balls of wound yarn. If you get close enough, you'll notice they have a mild, general "flowery" smell.

This resetting of my lens reminds me of the lab at the vet clinic. When you peer into it trying to look at a smear of ear gunk to find mites or yeast, or count white blood cells, or examine a manure sample to count parasite eggs, and find someone's been messing with the settings, you have to fiddle around to get it right again so you can see properly. Recently, I feel like I've gone from 100X magnification to 400X and someone's messed with the focus. But on the other hand, sometimes at the microscope, you realize that you did need a higher setting, to see things in greater detail. 

Purple crown vetch in June

I'm reminded of my favorite poet Mary Oliver who wrote extensively about nature. I've been propelled to pull out one of her collections from my shelf and sift through it again, as I do from time to time. Her words ring true as always; they are soothing, a balm. And also confirmatory. Here, from her poem "The Sun" (New and Selected Poems Volume One):

"Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon . . . "

And Virginia Woolf, who is not my usual go-to when it comes to observational quotes, but really should be:

"Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paper-knife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit."

What small new things have you discovered recently?

Watching the sunset from 7-11

I have a thing about sunsets.  I guess you could consider me a connoisseur of sunsets.  I enjoy sunrises too, but their timing is somewhat antagonizing, being at dawn and all that.  It's hard to really enjoy a sunrise during the weekday between the shower and the letting the dog out and the forgetting the coffee mug on top of the car as you pull down the driveway. 

When I used to make farm calls more often than I do now, I often saw both sunrises and sunsets in the same day due to long hours in the truck.  There was something nice about going to a dairy before sunrise, pulling a calf in the dark pre-dawn hours, and then walking back out to the truck under a pink and glowing sky. 

Now I feel I collect sunsets and sunrises.  I photograph them whenever possible, and take a moment to enjoy them whenever I can.  Our house, sitting in its cramped and impervious-to-nature subdivision faces east and I can catch glimpses of the sunrise from our second story bedroom window.  This has led to many a fleeting image of sunrise from a camera poking out at 6 am on a wintry morning. 

Winter sunrise out the bedroom window

Unfortunately, our house has no view of the sunset.  We sit in a slight dip and the backyard offers a marvelous view... of the neighbors' backyards.  However, drive up a small hill out of the neighborhood and across the street to the 7-11.  There, in the parking lot facing due west is a fairly unobstructed view of the sunset.  And so I sit in my Honda Civic sometimes just to watch the sky.  And occasionally eat ice cream.  

View of the sunset at my 7-11

Over the years of sunset observation, I have learned a thing or two.  I've found that winter is usually the best season for the most colorful sunsets (and sunrises) and I've also observed that tumultuous weather sometimes yields the best sunsets of all.  It's all about cloud placement.  And a little luck.  Of course there's some science behind it, too.  For some really good info on sunsets, visit NOAA's website here. 

Interestingly, on self-reflection, I don't actually find sunsets particularly inspiring for writing, at least not in the way other things affect my neurons like a hike in the woods or a good bike ride.  Perhaps if I were a painter I would glean more creative sustenance from a sunset.  But that's ok.  Maybe it's because when I watch a sunset, my head is empty.  I'm enjoying it for what it is - a fleeting colorful image that is changing before my eyes and will be gone in minutes.  Indeed, I've had sunset experiences where I've run for the camera only to find upon return that the colors are no longer as vibrant as they were only minutes before.  There's probably some deep metaphor on life buried in here somewhere - feel free to find it and let me know.

We have an upcoming trip to the Pacific Northwest in about a month.  I'm really looking forward to catching a sunset or two over the Pacific.  Until then, the sunset around here occurs around 7:45 pm.  If you're passing through the 7-11 at that time, you just might see me.  I'd like to share a few more sunsets/sunrises with you as collected on various travels.  Enjoy!

Sunset: Maui

Sunrise: Maui

Sunset: Frederick, Maryland

Sunset: Virginia Beach, Virginia

Sunset: Key Largo, Florida