Rattle

 

August 31, 2020

 

Greetings from the little noise,

 

I once knew a man who did not like things that rattled.  Or, more accurately, he did not like rattles.

“I don’t like rattles.”  he would say. 

I would nod, knowing it already, and because we were friends of a sort, I would say nothing.

 

If something was rattling, he wasn’t offended by the thing, but the rattle.  And this compelled him to silence it somehow.  He also did not like squeaks or buzzing or whistling, or more accurately, he did not like them when they were where there should be none of those.  A teakettle may whistle, but if the water heater whistled, it was to be silenced.  But above all those miniscule vibrations, rattles were the most critical. 

 

Perhaps it was offensive to his sense of order, such as it was.  Perhaps it was a control thing, wherein he felt it in his power to resolve a dissonant thing.   While the world crackled and crunched and moaned in its indifferent way, he felt compelled to do what he could about the rattles that crossed his path. 

 

“You are going to say I am too fussy, or I have OCD, or analyze my personality and explain why I have to solve this kind of thing.  I’m ‘ISTJ’ or I’m a Type One.”

I would say nothing, in part to prove him wrong, and in part because there was no point, because I don’t know if any of those things are true.  And it didn’t matter.  Does not now, even as I tell you.

 

He had a lawnmower that rattled.  It was a small, gas powered walk behind mower, which he abused beyond reason.  He mowed his grass when it was too long or too wet.  He would mow over sticks and into the gravel.  He didn’t change the oil when he should, and he never sharpened the blade.  It was a miracle the mower started, but it often did, and when it did, it rattled.

 

Luckily it was so loud that most of the rattling was part of the cacophony the poor machine emitted in its desperate effort to please him.   And then he would seize on the rattle that the control cable made when it vibrated against the handle. “D’ya hear that?”

 

Tools were brought out, spanners and screwdrivers, sockets, a rasp.  There would be things tightened and hammered, and he would listen, and twist something and listen again, until he was satisfied, that under the sputtering roar of the little lawnmower he had somehow silenced the noise he found out of place.

 

On every car he owned there were things that rattled.  The door trim would hum a high frequency rattle, like mosquito wings.  He would run his hands over every part to find the noise and then devise ridiculous inventions to silence it.  Painter’s tape, wooden shims, dabs of glue.

 

The ash tray door rattled, or the thing in the glove box, or something under the seat.   Rattle, rattle, clink, rattle, as he drove down the road and he would say “What is that noise?”

And I would shrug and say nothing because either I didn’t hear it, or I didn’t care and didn’t want to encourage his lunacy.

 

In the face of all other maintenance needs he would apply magnanimous effort and time to resolve ridiculously small vibrations.  Maybe he was being practical, knowing that a thing rattling was not acting as designed, could wear out or come loose.  If so, it was an ironic crusade in the light of his indifference to necessary repairs, or more obvious upkeep, of the things around him.

 

“What is that?  Can’t you hear that?” he would say out loud, not caring for anyone to answer.  Some clittery-clattery noise taking a nibble at his peripheral conscious.  Maybe the furnace filter wobbling, or the storm window clicking in the wind, or the clanking of the tie rod.  Fans, doorknobs, cotter pins, the heatshield on the catalytic converter.  And then he would create all manner of his own noise to silence the one insulting him.

 

He would be walking down the sidewalk and stop, wondering if it was loose change, or his belt buckle, what clinking noise was interfering with his concentration.  Then he would realize it was something in his inner ear, and lean on one leg and shake his head vigorously to dislodge the noise.  Whatever he might have invested his concentration in, was spared his attention.

 

When he was young, he travelled the country on his bicycle.  It was a simple machine that he relied on completely, and so he tended to it religiously.  And when there was a noise out of place, a chain vibration, a tiny buzz from a spoke, or if his gear bouncing on the rack behind him made a jangle, he would resolve it.  He couldn’t have described it then, but later he understood that what he was not just tweaking or tightening for the practical reasons.  When things were in accord as he rode down the road there was only the hum of his tires on the pavement.  It was more like he was in synchrony with his environment.

 

He came to understand this because I told him.  I rarely comment on his fixation with rattles, because it’s a waste of energy to advise a fanatic.  But one day he said “What is that,.. do you hear that?” and set about searching for some miniscule noise that, to him, was out of place.  I told him not to listen for the rattle but for what it is part of.  It was not the noise that was out of place, it was him.

 

There was a whirly bird captured in the edge of the screen, and the wind was oscillating it against the metal.  He put his finger on it to stop the noise, and then let it play, a jaw harp.  The morning was rainy and not far from the window there was another metal sound.  We listened closer and it was the rain making steel drum sounds in the downspouts.  The leaves splashed onto each other like whisks on a snare.   Far to the west thunder growled and the windows called back to the storm, a deep bass rattle.

He has softened in his obsession about whatever is loose and rattling.  He still wants to find the disobedient nut, or willful flange that seeks to express itself in sound.  But he did finally learn that there were other noises that deserved his attention.  And in time he has learned, although he needs to be reminded, where the harmony is.

 

 

Hope this finds you rattled,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

Celebrate

 

August 24, 2020

 Greetings from the reasons we make,

 Yesterday I was talking with my brother, Doug.  I didn’t have a reason to call, it was just time, or past time, probably.  We ended up laughing, a common exchange, no matter the conversation.  A few times while talking to him I have laughed so hard a crowd has gathered to see what all the noise is about.  After I hung up yesterday, I could still feel the pleasure of the laugh.  I even laughed remembering how hard we laughed. 

 It is a welcome feeling, this expression of happiness, a smile that cannot be contained, that must be more.  Laughter is a celebration.

 My daughter’s daughter, Ila, has reminded me of a principle of living a satisfying life; to celebrate.  She is so new to life our focus is on every increment that seals her safe passage into this world.  And then seeing her eyes follow our hand, and reach for it, and then her first smile, her first food, when she turns over.  Wow.

 There are few other places where we are so willing to celebrate than with a baby.  We are not shy about applauding when she blows a bubble of spit, or poops, or puts her finger in her nose.  And of course she will stand and then first steps, and there will be first words, firsts after firsts, all anticipated, and then joyfully celebrated. 

 But we are self-conscious about second steps, and third, until steps are mundane and ordinary.  We would not call all our relatives to tell them that our twenty-six-year-old son just took a step. 

 Birthdays and anniversaries and other milestones are easy places for us to start.  Achievements at the end of real effort, or momentous occasions like weddings or graduations.  Of course, we should applaud these moments and share the joy in them. 

 But I suggest looking for reasons to celebrate.  My twenty six year old son took a step, one of many, that will lead to satisfying work, or meaningful relationships, or achievements or simply building a rich, satisfying life.  Somebody get candles for the cake.

 You might think that constant celebration would diminish its impact, that it would feel unnatural and inauthentic.  You might wonder if we celebrate everything that happens if it will diminish real, significant reasons to acknowledge.  I say, take that chance.

 I hesitated to write this but here I am anyway; celebrate what you take for granted.  Not long ago my son Sawyer was hit by a car.  It was a terrifying thing, and thankfully it was no worse than it was.  When it was time to leave the emergency room, and he swung his legs off the bed and stood, took his first step, it was a moment of such joy and relief, such happiness, that it deserved celebration.  Maybe not appropriate at three o’clock in the morning at Detroit Receiving Hospital, but I would have put candles on the cake and had a party.

 You don’t have to look for tragedy or near misses, you simply need to acknowledge the gifts we are given and celebrate them.  You are a creative and intelligent bunch; you will find the reasons and the ways.  I urge you to do it.

 At the heart of celebration is the core of happiness: it is being grateful.   We could do worse than spending our waking moments seeking for reasons to celebrate.  We already know that what we focus on in our life will expand, and it’s true with this act.  Look for reasons to celebrate and they will line up to be counted. 

 Nature celebrates.  Each flower that blooms, every new fawn that bounds, each rebirth of seasons, we see the elements shout ‘Waa Hoo!’  The light shapes every tree, every stalk of wheat, even the sensual mounds of snow, revealing beauty that was created for us to see. Even as I write this the sun is buttering the grass in gold, calling to me to see how life continues to celebrate. 

 This is not the first time I’ve written about this, so I know these things, but knowing and doing can be lifetimes apart.  Twelve years ago, I wrote these words: “So, when do you feel you are at your best; when you are complaining about how hard things are, or when you celebrate a moment that elevates your heart rate and your smile can barely keep from turning into laughter?   So, pretend you get to choose: how do you want to spend your day today?” 

I am reminding myself here. 

 Sips of coffee. Morning light. Birds. The feel of grass on bare feet. An open field. Woods in every season. Words that move us or inspire us when threaded together. Thoughts while running. Seeing, tasting, smelling, feeling, hearing. Sore muscles.  The sense of wonder.  When we celebrate these things, we are showing gratitude for these gifts.  Celebration is prayer. 

 Our Creator wrote the music before we were born, scribbled a score on some infinite scroll, and set it free into our existence.  When we laugh, we express the composition written for us.  It is a celebration of the moment, put to music.  I believe it is why we are.  I love why we are.

 Laughter is a celebration of life.  You have passion in your life, which I hope you express, and in that act, like laughter, you live out what was given to you, and that in itself is a reason to celebrate.  Don’t wait for a date, or an accumulation of years, or a first step, or the end of a life.  Celebrate now. 

 

Hope this finds you choosing to celebrate,

 David

Sunset Stage

 

 

August 17, 2020

 

Greetings from the glimpses,

 

I felt them before I saw them the first time.  A soft vibration on the earth, muffled by the grass.  I didn’t assign any image to it; my attention was on the book I was reading.  Then I looked up to see what it might be.

 

On most summer nights I sit on my deck and watch the sun make its way to the western rim of the world, sometimes gathering purple and pink clouds along the horizon as it presses toward the trees.  Some evenings it inches across spotless blue sky, pausing to paint the world in glorious warmth, deep gold and orange, color that stays even after the sun has moved on to shine elsewhere.

 

They go by first in groups, a few together, and then the space is empty and then a few more, then one.  Then another.  I can’t focus fast enough so the first image I have is blurred motion.  I realize after a minute that my mouth is open, a reaction of awe, as if I’d seen a shooting star.

 

Somewhere in ‘Cannery Row’ Steinbeck describes ‘the Seer’, a man who lives on the beach there, who says to his friend, Doc; “It's time I go watch the sunset now. I wouldn't be much of a seer if I didn't do that. I've even come to think that it wouldn't go down without me.”

 

I don’t quite believe the sun waits for me, but some evenings it seems to.  I sit in my chair or on the edge of the deck and breathe in the scent of evening, watch the first fireflies accumulate in the low places, and watch through the row of trees to see what the day’s end will say.  It is a quiet bookend to my day, matching the space I write in this moment, still waiting for the sun to make its return.  

 

It is a little disorienting, their movement so fast that it almost makes the trees appear to be moving, a parallax effect of sorts.  They are wearing bright clothing.  Some of the boys are shirtless.  They are running, a few talking, calling out to those behind, but mostly the sound I hear is of runners moving across grass.

 

It is probably the local cross-country team, practicing for whatever might be in store if school resumes.  I have seen them gathering in clusters around town, their outfits more cheerful than their disposition sometimes, working out on the hill, or running the paths through the parks.

 

Here they are running around the field that lies on the other side of the line of pines near my deck, the place where I idle to watch the sun bid adieu.  I know without looking they are running loops in the grass, skirting the soccer field, around the elementary school, back onto the grass.

 

The second orbit brings them past me again, but now there is no talking.  All I hear is their breathing, I hear it before I see them.  They are working harder now, there is no laughing, no teasing comments, only the effort.  It has not evened out for them yet, so they are struggling, gasping, as their bodies find a tempo that will allow their lungs to catch up.

 

And then they flash between the pines again.  They are more spread out, so I am seeing this fluttering image of runners in the open spaces between the trees, like a film that has come off the projector reel.  One boy disappears and a different replaces him, and then they reappear in a different frame.

 

I sit under the canopy of a maple tree, an old friend now, and watch through the line of trees to the west that frame the sunset.  I find peace in watching the day conclude itself, feel a connection to the bazillion moments it has repeated this, and know that the world is spinning in greased grooves.  The moment is seasoned with another experience, new and yet familiar.

 

It is a peculiar stage they are on.  They are unaware of any audience, lost in their own thoughts, doing the work, unselfconscious, sweating, pushing themselves.  I see girls now, weaving between the greenery, passing each other as they run from stage right to stage left. 

 

My experience with watching runners, as observer, is surprisingly limited.  I have been a serious runner for four decades, long enough to be less serious now, but I rarely have watched others run unless I am running.  I am a poor spectator, or perhaps I have been in the wrong venues.

 

As I watch them go by, these young people, stripped of guile and posing and cell phones and the things that cling to teenagers, I can see them as they are, even in these pine parsed glimpses.  They are nearly in their natural state.  If you saw them you would be inspired and hopeful.

 

Sometimes the deer will ease out of the woods behind the house and, after a moment to be sure it is safe, they run full out across the field, just for the joy of running.  The first time I saw this I thought they had been startled, but the truth of it is they need to feel the glorious pain and joy of going all out across the open space.  They flash by between the pines, light thunder on the grass, in their natural state, beautiful creations, living one of their purest expressions.

 

The third time they pass there are fewer runners, spread out more.  The last of them pass more slowly, grinding now, redfaced, sweaty, wheezing against the demand the body makes.  I see pain, but also determination.  Each one appears, blinks behind a pine, and becomes another runner.  Behind them and ahead of them, they each become some other runner, each step taking them to that new reality. 

 

I am perched in this place to watch the sun give permission to close up the day, to see what art it will create to celebrate what we made of the waking hours.  Into that tableau, the sun poured light on this gift, these flawed and perfect examples of human experience, fluttering between the trees as living testimony to what we are capable of.

 

As I write this I remember the Seer was known for more than making eccentric observations and mystical references to goings on, he was also literally seeing the ebbs and flows of Cannery Row, and giving his perspective to those who might listen.  Granted, the most valuable morsels were rare moments of lucidity in his storms of tangled thinking, but if one was paying attention there was a chance to learn things.  For any of you who have visited this space more than once, you might recognize a similar experience.

 

The sun finds a unique way of creasing the horizon each evening.  Those of you who are watching know this, whether you see mountain vistas or rippling ocean.  Some evenings it melts in a golden orange puddle, sometimes it pulls puffy white covers over it, dropping into night.  Other times it sends dramatic fingers of light between the clouds, sometimes long after it’s gone it will paint a single cumulus messenger a bright pink, a final note from wherever the sun is next.

 

And some nights the sun outlines the shape of runners flashing between pine trees, fluttering whirls of color, simple and yet so filled with life and possibility you may find yourself with your mouth agape at the beauty of it.

 

Hope this finds you watching the spaces,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

Hidden Smile

 

Add caption

August 10, 2020

 

Greetings from the cues,

 

You could not be faulted for thinking that nature’s creatures are a serious bunch.  Their daily function is to simply survive, wherever they are on the food chain.  If you watch them going about their day you would be impressed by their industriousness and resourcefulness, but it would be unusual to think of them as cheerful.

 

Young rabbits and fawns are regular visitors to my yard, and even in their young state of bounding about the grass there is a certain graveness to what they do.  I realize as I am writing this of my narrow thinking but bear with me.  These animals, really all animals I see in the woods, do not smile. 

 

Squirrels, woodpeckers, spiders, cardinals, ladybugs, all living things I witness in nature here have the same intent countenance.  I never considered it; it simply is.  They never smile, probably because they are busy not being eaten, or eating.   The intelligent readers among you will roll their eyes at this, another example of someone overlaying human attributes to other animals and insects.  I’ll admit in my more cynical moments I don’t give animals credit for emotions.  But be honest; look at fifty pictures of any animal or bug and ask yourself: Is this animal happy?  Can’t tell.

 

Humans smile to show they are pleased.  We express happiness, contentment, joy even, through our face, and almost always with our smile.  It is a fundamental method of communication, unique to our specie.  We smile to show approval, to welcome, as part of loving, and often it is as unconscious as blinking.  Smiling, and its cousin, laughing, are an innate part of our emotional well being, both as a giver and a receiver.

 

Now we are in a place where our faces are covered most of time we are with other people, and we cannot show or see a smile.  I’m not the first or only person to comment on this, but this week I couldn’t help but be struck by how much this is really changing things for people.  If people cannot see our smile, and we can’t see theirs, the exchange is diminished.  There is something else too, which led me to this quote by the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh: “Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.”

 

I was at work, washing my hands for the thousandth time and looked up in the mirror and saw the usual, including the blue patch of cloth that covers half of my face.  That glance told me a lie. It said I was serious, intent, perhaps anxious.   I saw how others might see me, but I also realized how much I count on seeing myself, smiling.

 

As I wrote that last sentence I was smiling, I knew it because I felt it.  But remembering that moment, looking in the mirror, I asked myself: is this animal happy?  Can’t tell.

 

If you were observing us a specie this week you could not be faulted for thinking that humans are a serious bunch.  That our daily function is to simply survive, wherever we are on the food chain.  If you watched us going about our day you would be impressed by our industriousness and resourcefulness, but it would be unusual to think of us as cheerful.

 

The dragonfly is a work of art.  It is sleek and powerful, even its steampunk design.  Its colors are bold with sharp contrasts, as if a graffiti artist painted it.  It is delicate and remarkably lithe, and to see it fly is to be amazed.  Its very appearance is an expression of dragonfly.

 

Lightning bugs glow, mourning doves coo, hoverflies hover, fawns prance, dogs chase their tails, starlings swarm.  Gazelles move in choreographed flow across the savannah.  In nature, creatures have methods of expression that we may understand, but intuitively we miss some of it because most of us are looking for the cues we want in our fellow humans.  Like a smile.

 

But the truth is all of these creatures are expressing themselves in the ways they were created to.  What’s more, no surprise, when they need to, they adapt. 

 

We smile because we see a smile.  Even our own smile, caught in a mirror or a picture, gives us a different feeling about ourselves.   The masks have inhibited those exchanges we relied on, but we are not helpless.  We have been given all the solutions we need, if only we look.

 

Take inspiration from the creatures around you who express themselves, including their joy, in other ways.  The movement, the dance, the gathering, the sounds.  Where in any of that can we join in?

 

We have our eyes and our hands and our bodies to share what we want.  We have the clothes we wear, the colors with which we adorn ourselves.  Above all that we have our actions; what we do tells about how we are feeling and thinking.  When someone gives you a homemade chocolate chip cookie it expresses a lot.

 

No matter how long this mask is to be worn, we can find ways to show and see what each of us wants to be known, but we are going to have to adapt.  We will need to be intentional about how we tell people we are a happy animal.

 

 

Hope this finds you with reasons to smile,

 

David

 

 

Anniversary

August 3, 2020

Greetings from the rooms we share,

In most of life’s endeavors, thirty-five years would bring you a certain level of mastery.  I submit that marriage is not one of those.  Marriage is not plumbing or carpentry or the care of a bonsai.  There are myriad reasons we do not master this union, most of which exist in the people joined in it.  That is the joy and ache of the thing, and therein is the hope in it.

Thirty-five years ago, on this very date, I walked down the aisle of a church a different person than I had been when I entered.  I was married to Suzanne, and in those first steps we became witnesses to each other’s lives, necessary, as it turns out, as both of us became new people again and again.

In the years that have filled between that day and this, we have evolved and grown, so much that strangers would not always recognize us from one place and the next.  We were newlyweds, with that dewy aura, and then we turned our eyes to building a life, and we each became a little different, partners in a new way. 

And then Katherine was born, and we changed again.  And for a moment I couldn’t imagine us ever changing from that exciting life, and then we had triplet sons, Harrison, Carson and Sawyer.  And life was different again, and so were we.  Time passed, with all the rigors of raising up children to become young adults who can be launched into the world, and those experiences made new people out of Suzanne and me. 

I mean no disrespect to my marriage in saying that I have not yet figured it out, in fact the opposite.  The fact that it still requires learning and devotion to its success is what has contributed to our longevity and the richness of our lives.  Neither of us can take our role as witnesses for granted, because life is dynamic, and we are changing, and the charge is demanding.

I am not writing any of this as sage advice, I am still an acolyte, but I am a willing learner.  My level of maturity over these last decades has not kept pace with the information on my driver’s license, but I am evolved enough to be self-aware.  It is not easy being married to me, I’m confident of this.  I could illustrate my long list of spousal deficiencies, my reckoning, not my wife’s, but by the time you read this they will have changed and been added to, so the allusion will suffice.

The French writer Andre Maurois said, “A successful marriage is an edifice that must be rebuilt every day.”  I have considered this and found it true in that the effort that must be invested, but to me the edifice is not always being rebuilt as much as added to.

We have been building a house together.  In each new part of our lives we add rooms for us and for the people who have joined us. Here is the first room where we learned who the other was and how we would love.  Here is where our new friends came, now knowing us as a couple.  Here is where we made plans for other rooms.  Here is the room where our first child came to us.  Another where we lost children. Another where the boys joined us.

We build these rooms and add on to the life that is coming to us, and in each room we are a little different.  Not strangers, just new.  But the beauty in this is that we still have all of those other rooms, and we can go back and visit and see who we were and how life was.  And in all of that, entering each room we fall in love over and over again, with those versions of us, and who we are today.  We are witnesses to each other to remind us both of the rooms to look in.

Suzanne and I also build rooms for ourselves.  On the day we were married my friend Tom read a letter to us and the other witnesses there.  I keep it in my desk and look at it from time to time, and it is here with me now.  Among other things he urged us to talk and listen, and to give each other room to think our own thoughts.  Sometimes my room is a long stretch of road, and sometimes hers is a beautiful yard.  Sometimes it is this room where I write, and hers is right there where she reads and creates and sees the future.

It is not lost on me that this house of many rooms is not unlike the place where our Creator waits.  As we have been building each room in our lives, we have felt that presence.  God is in each room, patiently showing us, explaining in small ways and large, the complexities of our life. We are reintroduced to each other by God, these new witnesses in new rooms, giving us the chance to nurture the promises we made thirty-five years ago.

Now we are in a new doorway, a room that holds other futures, other people, other experiences.  There are hallways that extend out beyond what we can see, or may ever see.  Our children, and grandchildren are in these places.  You, whatever version of you that comes, will be welcome there too.  Another lesson from Tom, in that warm church thirty-five years ago,

was to make room for those of you in our lives who love us and bring us gifts we would otherwise miss.

Our life as witnesses to each other continues.  We love each other and lead each other into the new rooms,  holding hands, looking into the corners, making choices together about how the space will be, as we become new people again, and still bride and groom, newlyweds, new parents, and all the rest, and all of time each other’s.

Hope this finds you opening doors to see,

David