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?

Hello Again

Oh dear readers. What to say? What not to say? Even without the current world events, it's been eleven months since my last post. I've lost my posting ways. If I didn't have anything of import to say ten months ago, surely I don't have anything now. And yet. And yet we move forward.

So much on social media and numerous publications has examined, explained, bemoaned, sympathized, and excused the current state of cloudy thoughts and lack of creative ambition. I've read some of it. And it sort of helps until it gets to a point where it doesn't. I don't have anything new or unique to add to this new canon of pandemic paralysis. So I won't.

Instead, what to say? What not to say?

Found a beautiful morel a few weekends ago in the woods. Magic!

Here's something: I have been journaling more frequently than before. As in almost every day. It will usually take me six months or more to fill an average size journal and the one I'm currently working on, started in mid February, will be finished before May is over. What's in it? Mostly navel gazing and the self-pity spiral that ends with the gnashing of teeth and catatonic stares at the wall but also some note taking of current events. For posterity. A "Quarantine Diary" if you will. The New York Times even exalted the virtues of keeping a Corona Virus diary. Mine started in March, dutifully reporting the total number of Maryland cases each day. Lately, though, I've stopped doing that. Seems futile. Depressing.

Instead, as I flip through the pages over the last two months, I see lots of quotes. Quotes from newspaper and magazine articles about other's takes on the situation, those who are much better at words than I. Books recommended. Architecture to admire. Instructions on how to draw an illustrated map.

Well, it's no illustrated map, but how about some radishes? Eh?

Writer Arundhati Roy in particular has some excellent observations on this pandemic and--hey, silver lining here--I'm now a huge fan.

[PANK] literary magazine posted a good article April 30 on "Discovering the Available Means: On Reading and Writing in Quarantine" by Nancy Reddy. So, there's also that.

In summary, I'm floating in a haze. Perhaps posting is a small act of "hey, I did something." Or perhaps, more likely, it's more navel gazing. But it also gives me an excuse to show pictures of my two new cats, Mars and Jupiter:

Mars (left) and Jupiter, the new tenants.

One final thought. One quote I spied recently said this:

"Now is the time to grab at every loose idea."

It's copied purple and huge in my journal. And I think about it a lot. Almost a mantra. Because why shouldn't we? Especially now?! Let's go grab at those ideas. We've got nothing to lose.