Being Here

A young man named George has been here doing work for us. He says that when he observes a certain shift in the light coming through the leaves of the sycamore trees, he knows it’s quitting time. He also notices the sounds the trees make…they rustle, sing, and whisper. George is an appreciative audience, and that pleases me. I ask him if he writes, but he says only in his head. He likes to describe what he sees and feels, though. He talks about water in particular. “Most people think of water as being soft,” he says. “But I think it’s hard. It’s hard and cold. Do you know what I mean?”

No, I don’t quite know what he means, although I can imagine it. But Monte, who speaks the language of water, says of course. Especially here, he tells me, the water is hard and cold––and powerful, always in motion, always in charge.

I pay more attention to the grass, which to me is very like a sea. I watch it rippling and rolling, a thousand hues of russet, brown, yellow, and green. And I watch the trees dancing. And the distant hills that look so plush and rounded, they almost seem to breathe. Everything is animated here. So much life, so much movement, such a fierce determination to proceed.

In the evening, as the sun dips behind the hills to the west, a distinctive zig-zag shadow falls upon the eastern hillside, transforming the grass into a two-toned abstract canvas. I watch for it. It comforts me.

Last week I went for another amazing hike with friends. We stopped for an impromptu picnic in a little meadow-like area that was shielded from the wind. As we often do, we talked about life and death and the meaning of it all, but the worries of the world receded, and we were simply there, suspended in wonder, and Diane said, “Maybe this is heaven.”

And maybe it is.