A Mallard in Repose

It's been 40 days. I counted them. 40 days since I saw that lone mallard duck. 

I was on a walk. As I approached the edge, just about to pass the memorial that is like a small park, but in some ways is also like a cemetery with a design that invites you to enter to sit at one of the granite slabs, invites you to read the descriptions, to honor those that have served, to feel comfort in the tall birch trees that stand among the tufted grass, their white skin peeling off like pages in a book.

And when you approach from any direction, you see the tall slabs of granite that grace the edge of the sidewalk, water trickling down. In the middle you see the shallow geometrical shapes, filled with water, and down the center is a long path–the entire memorial is meant to be walked, to soak in the beauty, to take in the quiet, taking our minds somewhere, to make us think and appreciate. You can walk up and put your hand into the water. I've seen teenage boys ride their bikes through. I cringe when they do, only because it doesn't feel like that's what it's meant for, but it's so inviting, and at the same time, it causes a quiet stir inside. 

So, it was here that I was taken aback when I saw a single mallard peering into his own reflection or so it seemed. He stood at the edge of the water just looking in as though he was in a trance. I walked past and continued on with my walk.

The next day I walked the same path and I hoped to see the mallard. I did. Only this time he was curled up near the same spot that I saw him the day before. I felt sad. I asked myself why I felt sadness. Was it because I wasn't used to seeing ducks alone or appearing as if they are in contemplation and then snuggled up as if they are suffering a great loss.

I sat at one of the granite slabs and watched the mallard. It was peaceful, even as the street traffic passed by.

And then there came a passerby and he began snapping photos with his camera. He approached the mallard, the mallard got up and walked away and snuggled up in a different spot. The man tried again, only to cause the mallard to move again. Finally, the man stopped.

The mallard resumed his repose.

One Slender Book

I heard my name through the intercom. I left the bookshelf and walked to the back counter to see what the offer was. I wasn't expecting much, maybe three dollars for three small bags of books. I set my expectations low, knowing anything more would be a bonus. 

Twenty-two dollars–not bad.

I saw my stacks of books there. I felt a slight pang and wanted to reach for them and take them back. No, I reasoned, it was time to let them go. And there would be more in due time because there are books for keeping and books for giving up. The buyer looked at the one nearest me.

"Did you read this one?"

I placed my hand on top of the slender book.

"This one? Yes–in parts. I probably didn't give it the attention it deserved."

Where did this come from. I had read it, but it was so long ago. 

"It reminds me of–" He rattled off a few unknown names, more independents. She wanted to reach for her notebook, so she could jot them down and look them up later. Instead, she nodded, listened, saw the excitement in his face.

He turned back to his register to complete the transaction.

"I really like the cover art," she said.

"Yeah. It's beautiful. Reminds me of a friend's book. He was in an MFA program and this cover reminds me of one of his."

"Ah, I actually found this one at the Berkeley Museum of Art's bookstore. They had a small section of books that were on sale. 

"Oh, yeah–really?"

I signed my name and took the receipt to the middle of the store and cashed in on the books I sold.

Those hummingbirds–that book–that I did read: one poem contained within its slender, white casing–a rumination that I read so long ago remembering the beautiful jacket cover more than the words inside; though, from flipping through the first few pages, just before saying goodbye, just before placing it inside the bag, just before placing it back out into the world–the words were ethereal, they beat like the wings of a butterfly and shimmered like the coat of a hummingbird, now out of my hands, but in memory–as a bitter sweet parting.

 

What's Wrong with this Picture

Hubby and I both had to stop at the ATM. I was focused on our breakfast destination because I was incredibly hungry, which made me less observant of my surroundings. I was about to walk to the car when he pointed out that someone left their children in the car with its engine on. We looked around to see if a parent was around. No one people were at the ATM machine. Without hesitation he went into the bank to alert someone. I stayed outside in front of the car, looking around to see if someone would come out soon. 

Two children in the back seat, an infant and a toddler, not at all in distress, actually entertaining themselves, but something was not right. Sure, we might be in a safe neighborhood, but no where is absolutely safe and to leave two children unattended in an idling car doesn't seem right. Children are kidnapped all the time; cars stolen.

There were words exchanged in the bank. Hubby asked for security and told them about unattended children. A man–the man spoke up in an angry tone and said they were his and that who was he to judge. Hubby said indeed he was judging and it wasn't right to leave his children in a running car without anyone there. Shortly after that is when they came out those doors. He said the women in the bank gasped, they seemed in disbelief.

I look over at the bank doors to see if anyone is coming out. Out comes a man of about 35, hubby behind him walking towards me, shaking his head. The man reaches into the car with the children, turns off the ignition, and hurriedly goes back into the bank.

I asked if the man at least had a view out to the car. No, his back was to the door. 

What was most shocking to my hubby is that the man clearly did not think there was anything wrong in his decision.

We went on our way. The children remained alone for however long the man needed to clear up his banking business. They would probably be fine.

But really, Sir, you should be more careful in the future!

Two Views

One of the tasks that I enjoy doing at work is putting together the agenda for our bi-monthly team meetings where we also choose a place to eat. I add clip art to spruce up the blank page and try to come up with an interesting "activity" for each meeting. It could be anything from naming our favorite childhood game to working through a short list of anagrams. It mustn't take up too much time, just something to lighten things up, to inform, or entertain. Our past meeting, I was short for time and had collected a few bits of trivia to share from the back of past daily calendar pages. I also shared a quote from my new daily calendar: "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff." 

As we entered the Vietnamese restaurant and taken to our seats, I immediately noticed the plants nearby and commented on how nice they looked. There was a collection of several green leafed plants on top of an area that had been built as a short wall that was wide enough to accommodate a half-dozen plants. A skylight illuminated their foliage and their space. When we sat, my boss said that he thought the plants looked gloomy. I was a bit surprised and asked him why he thought so. He wasn't able to say.

We placed our orders and I handed an agenda to the boss and T. The boss read the quote first and then said, "Is this another one of those depressing sayings?"

The quote was: "When you are wishing you were somewhere else, it’s almost as though you are one step removed from life rather than actually being in it, open to life exactly as it is.”

I told him that I thought the quote was somewhat uplifting and asked if he really thought it was depressing.  He gave me a look to say yes. He then moved on to the trivia and said, oh, this will be better, not depressing. I told him the trivia should be much more positive for his tastes and shouldn't make him feel depressed at all. He did like it, and I added a few more bits about it that I had read on Wikipedia.

We waited for our meals and drank tea and water. I noticed that the boss turned back to look at the plants. I asked him if he knew what it was that made him think they looked gloomy. He turned back again. He looked perplexed, like he was searching for something that had no answer. I suggested that maybe it was the beige wall they sat upon. He asked me what I thought; what was my view of the plants? I told him that when I looked at those plants standing straight and tall that they made me feel happy and that they looked happy and healthy. He agreed that they looked healthy, but that didn't change the fact that they also appeared gloomy to him. 

I completely accepted his view. I was just so fascinated that in this one instance, there were two totally different examples of how we saw something so differently. Of course if we were in an art gallery, I wouldn't give it a second thought. So why did it surprise me now?

He joked in a half-serious way that maybe his eyesight was going. I said his eyes were probably just fine.

Our meals arrived and we continued talking about other things. As I sipped my tea, I too stole glances at the plants, contemplating the different views, but also admiring their beauty. 

An Angel

Piercing blue eyes,

he, curved into his core,

a hand that trembles;

white hair, a lazy leg.

Making his living, in the last

stages of his life, washing away

the grime, making sure we can see

clearly, daydream through those clear windows,

watch the passerby.

I see him from time to time. The last,

before this, I wept.

I wept because I felt that I 

was looking upon one of God's Angels–

The moment I whispered these words aloud

for only my ears: 'that is one of God's Angels'–

the tears trailed down my face.

Little Somethings

birch trees

stand like white ghosts

their leaves sway

whispering secrets to the wind

&

A little brown bird swoops in, pecks daintily at the earth, scratching his feathers, not minding my presence one bit.

&

A crow off in the distance staring into the grass, looking for some treat.

The trees continue their conversation with the wind.

The crow swaggers along the path to a different patch of grass. His beautiful, black body holds my gaze, he shimmers in the sun's light, as the image melds–the breeze, the grass, the little bird, the stranger who has joined me on this bench. We sit in silence.

the silence breaks by the caw-caw of the crow; 

he flies to his tree, 

sounds his siren again, 

echoes ripple back;

the scent of dry earth and bark perfume the air–

caught by the breeze.   

I've been thinking about you

I've been thinking about you
since I haven't seen you in
weeks, now months.

At the intersection, as I wait for
the light to turn from red to green;
the streets seem empty without
you rolling your cart around. I often
wonder what you kept in that case of yours.

I used to see you at the cafe, smoking your
cigarettes, smoke rising above you.

If I had to guess, I would say you were in
your seventies and I would only hope to
age as you have–you had a certain spark in
how you walked with purpose, slightly
stooped, not letting anything stop you.

I used to see you walking and walking, walking
everywhere and I'd pass you on the street,
and so many times when you were sitting at
the cafe puffing on your cigarette, I wanted so much
to stop and say hello, sit down, have a conversation.

You see, I saw something of myself in you, rolling
along–alone–alone in a way that makes being alone
lovely–like a single flower on its stem.

Driving Down the Highway

Driving down the highway, we pass hills and trees. I keep my eyes open for cows; and then I see Coots, those black bundles that get a running start on the water before they take off; and I see one lone bird perched high in the branches, small and hidden away, but seeing everything.

And on this past Saturday, the clouds formed a parachute, wrapping the sky in a weave pattern that made me want to climb on up and see the land from up above.

Highway turned to narrow country roads and the image that has stayed with me is of one white Heron standing in the grassland with a fence between him and another white Heron on the other side of the fence. They were looking at each other from at least 15 feet apart–looking as though they had found themselves in a mirror, looking carefully and cautiously into each other's eyes from that distance. It was a sight that like a pebble thrown into a still lake has rippled throughout my being.

The Puppy

Friday afternoon I took a walk during my work break. On my way back to the office, I waited for the signal to turn to green and when it did, I first looked to my left to the car that was eager to turn right into the crosswalk, even though I had the right away. I caught his eye and began to walk. As he passed, his foot was clearly pressed hard to the accelerator—body language—from his irritation and his impatience directed toward and out of his car.

I was annoyed. It seems that I also have a tendency to take humans communicating through their cars personally. I made it to the other side of the crosswalk, onto the sidewalk, when I saw a man and his dog. The dog was a grown puppy. He reminded me of my childhood dog whom I loved dearly. He was my pal. This puppy was a lighter golden color. When I set my eyes on the puppy, all traces of my annoyance faded away. Forgotten. A large smile covered my face as I continued to watch the puppy walk with his floppy legs and happy gait. He was a couple of paces behind his owner. Walking and walking, happy and adorably clumsy, then the puppy lifted a leg and peed right there—in the middle of the sidewalk. I was about seven feet behind. I didn’t laugh, but I continued smiling. The man saw me. He tried to pull gently on the puppy’s leash. It was no use. He then said to the puppy, “really? Here. Really?”

“Is he a retriever?” I asked, slowing down, as I was about to pass. He answered that yes he was. “He is absolutely adorable,” I said.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that,” he said, holding the leash as the puppy finished his business. As I walked by, the puppy gave me a quick hello with his snout. I walked ahead appreciative to see such a happy puppy with not a care in the world. I walked back to work with a lighter step.

Thinking ~ Men & Women

The last few times I’ve been at the laundry, I’ve especially noticed a few different younger couples and their approach. It seems that the women usually fall into a pattern of giving the men precise instructions while the men listen, rather than taking the lead, or expressing that they’ve got it. It then became clear, that I have done this as well; and then I began thinking of the other scenarios where this happens.

After becoming more aware of this tendency in myself, now if my significant other and I do laundry together, we load in different machines, but we do it separately. I find that it’s best if I go away because I too will fall into a mode where I start making comments, directions, questions. It’s an odd thing, really, and yes, there are exceptions. But, there is a fine line, and it’s one area where the difference in how men and women go about certain tasks becomes very apparent.

Something I hear often also is when a couple has been together so long, the man always defers to the woman: Whatever she says, wants, approves. It’s fascinating and maybe I’m just seeing the small percentage and this isn’t how it is across many long standing relationships. It makes me feel that we as women and all of our hormones and emotions are actually quite difficult and moody, whereas our men without the hormones, etc., etc., are able to be more carefree to an extent because they don’t internalize and overanalyze as much as women and they may hold a grudge, but they seem more equipped to “let go.”

But it’s these emotions and hormones and internalization that also make women special and capable of so much. Men are special too, but in very different, practical, rock solid ways.