Being There

Timing. One day I can walk out the back door and there’s a brilliant sunset for the viewing. On another I can walk out and the clouds are a steel gray and the sun is gone and whatever light painted them colors is someone else’s memory. Yesterday morning at first light there was a single cloud in a monotonously clear, light blue morning sky. Twenty minutes later a stream of its brothers appeared, the blue of the sky darkened a bit, and the clouds took on a hue of rose as the horizon tipped to the sun.

One day I can sit in my chair, reading and see a flicker of movement in the sumac. Most days its one of the phoebes. A pretty bird to be sure, but hardly colorful. On another day, the movement can be accompanied by a flash of color and there will sit a bluebird, a touch of rust on its breast, blue on its back. Large and a bit more regal, if you like kings, than the phoebe. And what birds have come calling when I am absent from my chair? We have buntings in the neighborhood, and goldfinches. Will they come when I’m there or will they come when I’m gone? And that is the thrill of looking, the possibility of seeing, of being there at the right time.

But when it gets down to it, I think I should be grateful I see anything at all, that I even have the opportunity to watch a bird in a tree or a sky above. Because there are the blind who cannot see, and the inattentive who can see but aren’t looking. And I can do both, look and see. And it’s always good to remember that while I’m looking for the rare beauty, the companionship of a phoebe has a value of its own as does even the grayest of skies. And I think now I shall go outside and see if the rain will come. You never know what it will bring.