Do you ever think about looking at something from another angle?
I always sit under my shade tree in the backyard. Sun shines there in the morning and right now the light is collecting on the dew that is poised to drip off the edges of the grapevine leaves. New leaves that have seemingly appeared overnight on the now thick growth of green vines. In the afternoons, it is a small and cool haven that lengthens into supper time and the extended evening hours of long orange summer light. If it sprinkles, I’m dry under the limbs. In the spring, when it is covered in white, the smell of the crabapple blossoms lingers on the verge of overpowering the senses. In the fall the birds will all descend to eat the overripe fruit. It’s a good place to see the flower gardens, the rose garden on the side of the house and get a glimpse of the front street and anyone who might drop by.
It’s my spot. So last weekend, early in the morning, alone except for the cats, I decided to look at things from another perspective. Even though I was very comfortable, happy and confident where I was. Where I had been. I moved my chair over beside the garden on the other side of the shade. I realized I couldn’t recall a time when I’d actually sat by the new vegetables or the strawberries and rhubarb. The young tomatoes smelled like they do when you rub a leaf between index finger and thumb. The garlic scapes were a bright chartreuse green and curled like tiny green flying snakes. Looking into the sun over where I’d normally be sitting, I could see the overnight work of spiders, blowing with the breeze where they’d woven their new webs in the arms of our Adirondack chairs. Movement to my left ended up being a dragonfly leaving and returning to one of last year’s raspberry canes over and over again after catching gnat after gnat that were thick in the currant bushes. This lasted more than 10 minutes, long enough for a pair of yellow warblers to discover his breakfast cache and join in. They were why I’d been able to enjoy my spot all these days and years, black fly-free. Hmmm.
The bark on my tree looked different on this side, it’s older now and that’s not surprising as this side gets sunlight pretty much all day, everyday. But everything over here looked a little different.
I’ve noticed that I don’t miss the big old silver maple that got cut down in preparation for the new street out on our block. That’s probably because after all the initial work was done, the sidewalks, curb, drains and street itself remain sand and dirt prior to a layer of gravel and eventually pavement and new sidewalks. The missing tree is only part of the unfinished story. Of our unfinished story.
Waiting to see how it turns out is the rest of the story, or the next chapter anyway.
From my new vantage point I could almost hear the Milkweed plants growing taller behind me on the other side of the fence. I’ve tried to get them to grow for years, get them reestablished from silken seed strands that I pulled from dried pods at the city compost and other places and planted in the fall just like the Google says to do. Now I’ve got four plants growing where there was only one last year. Perhaps I’ll get some pods of my own before October. That will really take me back to childhood days in my mind. Opening the green ones and feeling the milky stickiness of their insides. Watching a dry pod open in the wind and send all its seeds out like tiny paratroopers to land wherever the wind literally blows them. Potential in a random burst of breeze.
Looking down, there’s carrots, peas, beans, potato hills and beets. Swiss chard and onion sets. More garlic. Tomatoes again. There’s some of the last surviving boards that used to be red and used to be the kid’s sandbox. I like it over here. All of my favorite things are over here too. I guess that perspective has more about it than positioning.
And so I wonder about walking in another person’s shoes; at least long enough to understand their perspective, from their position. I wonder, because the dragonfly is still returning to his cane, days later. The seagull is still patrolling overhead and the ravens are still barking from their nesting trees. The flower gardens, particularly the roses, are still very beautiful, even though I’m sitting in a different place. I wonder if we might find some ways to come closer together instead of deepening the divide that separates us.
I think we need to. I know that my faith tells me we should. Small steps are o.k. You remember the ripple effect, right? Once you toss that rock into the lake, things are never, ever the same as before you did. The ripples touch everything, even when they cannot be seen. We’ve got to try and we’ve got to learn to be patient. Want to practice? Go bobber fishing. Remember my Dad’s all-time best and most simple advice. “Let your bobber drift, son, let it alone, you’ll know when it’s time.”
