Telling time with watches
Telling time with clocks
Telling time with fossils
And the carbon in the rocks
Telling time to slow down
Telling time to wait
Telling time I’m right behind
But telling time too late
© 1983, 2007 Scott Burnett
Showing posts with label Mortality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mortality. Show all posts
11/21/2007
5/07/2007
Barry Lopez on *relational beauty*
"We cannot save things. Things pass away. We can only attend to relationships, to the relationships between things. It is here that we see the most beautiful images we are capable of apprehending or imagining—the relationship between a mother and a child, the racket of sunlight on pooling water, a bird alighting on a limb."
Barry Lopez
Barry Lopez
3/12/2006
11/16/2005
Bigleaf Maple
Near the southwestern corner of my property stands a bigleaf maple tree. The surrounding firs are taller; they shoot up like arrows, denying their indebtedness to earth. The maple spreads its muscular canopy in a broad, rounded dome that echoes its mother’s ever-pregnant belly.
One of the best things about trees is that they stay put. Trees are not transient; they don’t change their minds about where they want to live. So when one vacates its place, the spirit of that locale changes.
A few winters ago it lost a large limb in a storm. The following summer I climbed the bank, picking my way through tangles of ivy and blackberry vines. I carried a bow saw, thinking to harvest a few armfuls of firewood from the fallen branches.
I was surprised to find the wood was already rotten from the inside out. It turns out that bigleafs are susceptible to a blight that causes them to fall apart. Few stand for more than a couple of decades.
The tree’s imminent demise has not dimmed its palette. Each autumn its leaves are transformed from sweet green to Van Gogh strokes of ochre, lemon, russet, and flame. It is a fountain of oxygen and color telling a story about the dignity of ending.
One of the best things about trees is that they stay put. Trees are not transient; they don’t change their minds about where they want to live. So when one vacates its place, the spirit of that locale changes.
A few winters ago it lost a large limb in a storm. The following summer I climbed the bank, picking my way through tangles of ivy and blackberry vines. I carried a bow saw, thinking to harvest a few armfuls of firewood from the fallen branches.
I was surprised to find the wood was already rotten from the inside out. It turns out that bigleafs are susceptible to a blight that causes them to fall apart. Few stand for more than a couple of decades.
The tree’s imminent demise has not dimmed its palette. Each autumn its leaves are transformed from sweet green to Van Gogh strokes of ochre, lemon, russet, and flame. It is a fountain of oxygen and color telling a story about the dignity of ending.
4/29/2004
Follow Your Dog
Boomer and I stride uphill, toward the farthest cul de sac. We’ll shoot through the footpath to the trail and head west. There’s another big hill that way we can tackle before pushing home. I’m in a crunch for time today, so there’s no dawdling.
As we reach the cul de sac, Boomer’s gaze is fixed on the footpath. He has the aspect of a Pointer. It seems as though he’s counting on his forward focus to overrule any inclination I might have to turn around at this point.
Behind us, a curled maple leaf jumps along the street, animated by the breeze. It makes a hollow, scraping sound. My first startled thought is that it’s an animal skittering toward us.
We stride from the blacktop to the hard packed dirt of the path. Now that we’re off the street I unclip Boomer from his leash. He gallops into his routine of leaving and retrieving scent messages. He might as well be dancing a jig. This is pure, unapologetic pleasure for my dog.
The trail’s attractions call him in a dozen different directions. He plunges into a spray of tall grass, then darts ahead to another, skids into a u-turn and races back to the first as though he’s forgotten something. More snuffling and snorting. He bounds through a pride of dandelions, investigates a mossy branch brought down by a recent windstorm, and sniffs a pudgy lab that’s waddled over to say hi.
I notice an old man in the distance, standing on the trail. It’s hard to tell which direction he’s heading. He stops frequently, and looks this way and that. I guess he’s either disoriented, or just noncommittal about continuing today’s exercise.
He’s dressed for a colder afternoon than this one. He seems breakable and weightless, like the maple leaf. His head is forward and his hamstrings are taut. Age has curled him into a crescent shape.
“Hey Boomer! Heel!” It’s my practice to bring Boomer to my side when we near someone else on the trail. He has pretty fair manners for a dog, but there’s no sense taking chances. It seems best to curtail his frolicking until we’re clear of the elderly hiker.
As the distance shrinks between us I see that he’s smiling at me. I get the feeling he’s anxious to tell me something. He’s waiting for me to come within speaking range. I smile back.
He lifts himself slightly on the balls of his feet as he begins to speak. His voice is small, without resonance. There’s something musical about it, though.
“If you’d follow your dog, ‘stead of the other way around” he offers with a chuckle, “it’d be more interesting for both of you.”
I’d expected a comment about the weather, or perhaps an inquiry about what breed Boomer might be. I laugh with him and say something like, “Yeah, I guess you’re right!” But inside it feels like he’s just nudged me off the rails of my purpose-driven recreation.
I pick up the pace, and make for the killer hill. It’s on my agenda to break a respectable sweat. Boomer dives into a posy of wildflowers, and the old man’s message echoes in my thoughts. I suppose it’s possible for angels to have poor circulation and bad posture.
As we reach the cul de sac, Boomer’s gaze is fixed on the footpath. He has the aspect of a Pointer. It seems as though he’s counting on his forward focus to overrule any inclination I might have to turn around at this point.
Behind us, a curled maple leaf jumps along the street, animated by the breeze. It makes a hollow, scraping sound. My first startled thought is that it’s an animal skittering toward us.
We stride from the blacktop to the hard packed dirt of the path. Now that we’re off the street I unclip Boomer from his leash. He gallops into his routine of leaving and retrieving scent messages. He might as well be dancing a jig. This is pure, unapologetic pleasure for my dog.
The trail’s attractions call him in a dozen different directions. He plunges into a spray of tall grass, then darts ahead to another, skids into a u-turn and races back to the first as though he’s forgotten something. More snuffling and snorting. He bounds through a pride of dandelions, investigates a mossy branch brought down by a recent windstorm, and sniffs a pudgy lab that’s waddled over to say hi.
I notice an old man in the distance, standing on the trail. It’s hard to tell which direction he’s heading. He stops frequently, and looks this way and that. I guess he’s either disoriented, or just noncommittal about continuing today’s exercise.
He’s dressed for a colder afternoon than this one. He seems breakable and weightless, like the maple leaf. His head is forward and his hamstrings are taut. Age has curled him into a crescent shape.
“Hey Boomer! Heel!” It’s my practice to bring Boomer to my side when we near someone else on the trail. He has pretty fair manners for a dog, but there’s no sense taking chances. It seems best to curtail his frolicking until we’re clear of the elderly hiker.
As the distance shrinks between us I see that he’s smiling at me. I get the feeling he’s anxious to tell me something. He’s waiting for me to come within speaking range. I smile back.
He lifts himself slightly on the balls of his feet as he begins to speak. His voice is small, without resonance. There’s something musical about it, though.
“If you’d follow your dog, ‘stead of the other way around” he offers with a chuckle, “it’d be more interesting for both of you.”
I’d expected a comment about the weather, or perhaps an inquiry about what breed Boomer might be. I laugh with him and say something like, “Yeah, I guess you’re right!” But inside it feels like he’s just nudged me off the rails of my purpose-driven recreation.
I pick up the pace, and make for the killer hill. It’s on my agenda to break a respectable sweat. Boomer dives into a posy of wildflowers, and the old man’s message echoes in my thoughts. I suppose it’s possible for angels to have poor circulation and bad posture.
4/06/2004
Willow
The brass-colored sun looks like the bell of an immense trumpet, blaring a single sustained note. Shadows stretch to absurd lengths and taper at the end like Dr. Seuss figures.
The heat of the day lingers into evening. Not long ago we had a hundred consecutive rainy days, but this summer has given us a record streak of days over seventy degrees. Now that it’s September I feel a little disoriented by the nice weather.
My dog, Boomer, and I are walking westward on our favorite trail. The mountains are smudged with a million shades of purple, peach and gold. Two chestnut-colored Vizsla Hounds glide up the hill ahead of us. They move as if they’re weightless – as if they might take flight at any moment.
I’m fascinated by the contrast they provide to Boomer’s heavy, “ground-hugging” gait. His Bulldog and Terrier genes anchor him to the earth.
The Vizslas and their chaperone disappear over a rise. Boomer plows through the taller, greener grass along the side of the trail. With the cooling of dusk a lavish banquet of scents comes loose from each tuft. He wheels around and crashes again through an especially fragrant spray of straw.
Boomer seems happy with his dense musculature and earthbound stride. He wastes no time wishing he were a Vizsla. He grins at me as if to say, “Isn’t this great!” Then, with tags and collar jingling merrily, tears off in search of another bit of territory that needs marking.
We’d normally turn around and head home at this point. I don’t want to go back yet. The cadence of my footsteps reminds me of something important, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
A smoky-gray cat crouches low and glares at us from the other side of a wire fence. Noticing she’s been noticed, she fades into the shadows under a flatbed trailer.
One day two years ago I walked this trail, sorting through my mostly localized joys and sorrows. The next morning, while packing school lunches, I listened to radio reports of airplanes crashing into the Twin Towers. Then I watched on television as the buildings crumbled. My miniscule joys and sorrows, along with my illusions of American life, were swallowed into those horrible craters.
We descend the long, steep hill to the highway, and wait for a break in traffic. Once on the other side, we set out across the valley. I stop midway to admire a very old weeping willow. Boomer is less interested, but waits dutifully at my side. The tree’s green and gold waterfall hisses in the breeze. It forms a circular veil, concealing a grassless grotto around the massive trunk. I part the branches, enjoying the brush of almond-shaped leaves against the back of my hand.
Within the willow’s sanctuary time loosens its grip. This could be 1967, and I could be playing in my grandmother’s yard in New York. A cascade of memories pours over my soul. I resist the temptation to clutch at them, and surrender instead to their brief, bittersweet comfort.
Crying… That’s what this evening’s walk has been like: Crying… My feet have been hitting the ground like tears that won’t stop. Miles and miles of size twelve tears…
Once discovered, the feeling dissipates. I grope after it, but it’s gone like a rhyme I didn’t jot down at three in the morning.
“C’mon, Boo’ – this way…”
The trail continues up the opposite bank of the river, and snakes into the trees. I very much want to see if it leads to Lake Washington, but the river blocks our way. We turn north instead.
I feel like weeping, but my eyes remain dry. There are too few tears for the task. The sadness of what was lost on September Eleventh is still impossible for me to process. And its long shadow darkens my insides.
The Sammamish is a river in name only; it’s really a slow-moving, algae-laden slough, and after our dry summer its stench is remarkable. A slough must be a river that forgot where it was going.
I feel an urgency to remember where my heart was going before it went into shock two years ago. The slough’s putrid reek makes it hard to breathe. God, don’t let my heart go stagnant! Somehow I have to figure out how to grieve – how to recover the flow of my own sorrow and joy.
Boomer is panting with thirst, but there is no fresh water until we reach the park in downtown Woodinville. I cup my hand to the fountain and deliver tiny drinks to him until he’s satisfied.
The sun has faded completely. It’s dark. My better judgment knows the road is too busy and its shoulder too narrow to walk without a flashlight. So, when my cell phone rings I accept my daughter’s offer to drive out and pick us up.
The heat of the day lingers into evening. Not long ago we had a hundred consecutive rainy days, but this summer has given us a record streak of days over seventy degrees. Now that it’s September I feel a little disoriented by the nice weather.
My dog, Boomer, and I are walking westward on our favorite trail. The mountains are smudged with a million shades of purple, peach and gold. Two chestnut-colored Vizsla Hounds glide up the hill ahead of us. They move as if they’re weightless – as if they might take flight at any moment.
I’m fascinated by the contrast they provide to Boomer’s heavy, “ground-hugging” gait. His Bulldog and Terrier genes anchor him to the earth.
The Vizslas and their chaperone disappear over a rise. Boomer plows through the taller, greener grass along the side of the trail. With the cooling of dusk a lavish banquet of scents comes loose from each tuft. He wheels around and crashes again through an especially fragrant spray of straw.
Boomer seems happy with his dense musculature and earthbound stride. He wastes no time wishing he were a Vizsla. He grins at me as if to say, “Isn’t this great!” Then, with tags and collar jingling merrily, tears off in search of another bit of territory that needs marking.
We’d normally turn around and head home at this point. I don’t want to go back yet. The cadence of my footsteps reminds me of something important, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
A smoky-gray cat crouches low and glares at us from the other side of a wire fence. Noticing she’s been noticed, she fades into the shadows under a flatbed trailer.
One day two years ago I walked this trail, sorting through my mostly localized joys and sorrows. The next morning, while packing school lunches, I listened to radio reports of airplanes crashing into the Twin Towers. Then I watched on television as the buildings crumbled. My miniscule joys and sorrows, along with my illusions of American life, were swallowed into those horrible craters.
We descend the long, steep hill to the highway, and wait for a break in traffic. Once on the other side, we set out across the valley. I stop midway to admire a very old weeping willow. Boomer is less interested, but waits dutifully at my side. The tree’s green and gold waterfall hisses in the breeze. It forms a circular veil, concealing a grassless grotto around the massive trunk. I part the branches, enjoying the brush of almond-shaped leaves against the back of my hand.
Within the willow’s sanctuary time loosens its grip. This could be 1967, and I could be playing in my grandmother’s yard in New York. A cascade of memories pours over my soul. I resist the temptation to clutch at them, and surrender instead to their brief, bittersweet comfort.
Crying… That’s what this evening’s walk has been like: Crying… My feet have been hitting the ground like tears that won’t stop. Miles and miles of size twelve tears…
Once discovered, the feeling dissipates. I grope after it, but it’s gone like a rhyme I didn’t jot down at three in the morning.
“C’mon, Boo’ – this way…”
The trail continues up the opposite bank of the river, and snakes into the trees. I very much want to see if it leads to Lake Washington, but the river blocks our way. We turn north instead.
I feel like weeping, but my eyes remain dry. There are too few tears for the task. The sadness of what was lost on September Eleventh is still impossible for me to process. And its long shadow darkens my insides.
The Sammamish is a river in name only; it’s really a slow-moving, algae-laden slough, and after our dry summer its stench is remarkable. A slough must be a river that forgot where it was going.
I feel an urgency to remember where my heart was going before it went into shock two years ago. The slough’s putrid reek makes it hard to breathe. God, don’t let my heart go stagnant! Somehow I have to figure out how to grieve – how to recover the flow of my own sorrow and joy.
Boomer is panting with thirst, but there is no fresh water until we reach the park in downtown Woodinville. I cup my hand to the fountain and deliver tiny drinks to him until he’s satisfied.
The sun has faded completely. It’s dark. My better judgment knows the road is too busy and its shoulder too narrow to walk without a flashlight. So, when my cell phone rings I accept my daughter’s offer to drive out and pick us up.
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