Benched #22: here

My effort to squeeze a bench sitting into the schedule on Sunday was almost laughable.  Planned right, there would just be enough time on my drive to suburban D.C. to stop at Cunningham Falls in Maryland, to sit for forty minutes and take in the cascading water.

But there were problems.   Like getting to the falls, for one.  A winding drive to the park followed by what had been promised as a “fairly flat” half-mile hike shaved off precious minutes.  Then, there were the falls. 



Or the lack thereof.  I suppose renaming it Cunningham Trickle wouldn’t draw in the crowds.  And these “falls” drew crowds – with the kind of international flavor I’ve been finding only in cities.



Ironically, I had planned to draw the cascade, as a change of pace from my usual photos.  But without much water or time, I opted to do a quick sketch of the woods off to one side.  (Drawing the scene was far easier than photographing my hand drawing the scene, which taught me that using a camera is yet another thing I don’t do well left-handed.)



That’s when this boy appeared.  Like an advanced scout for an invading troop, he popped up, eyeing with glee the rocky landscape ahead.  His siblings and weary parents followed behind.  He and his brothers petitioned the adults to let them roam and climb. The father readily agreed.

The mother protested, saying, “If we let them climb we can’t get to the next place!”

The father asked, “What’s the hurry?”

“There’s all kinds of owls and stuff to see.”

“Where?”

“At the tire park.”

The dad’s next words ended the argument.  He said, “But when are we coming back here?”



Exactly, I thought.  Those are words to live by.  When are we coming back here?  Why be ever-pressing to the next place, the next person, the next weekend?  It was a pointed thought at that moment, as I was panicking to get back to the car to speed to my gig.  It’s hard to enjoy the scenery when you’re racing by it.

Racing. During the drive I thought again of how I had, in the last few days, turned down three engagements in three different cities so that I could be at my daughter’s cross country meet today.  It made no financial sense, but then, when would I be coming back here: Grace, stride for stride with one of her good friends, sprinting with a fluidity that seemed almost effortless, belying the hard work she puts in.  And here: the pleasure in her flushed face, afterward, as she told me details of her running.

After so much of my own racing around, it’s good to be here.

Benched #21: fluttering wings

In any given city square on a sunny Sunday, there are countless minor stories being acted out. San Francisco’s Union Park was no exception.  It was a balmy afternoon when I found my bench and watched the personal vignettes unfold.

Two stood out.

A pretty, blonde woman in her twenties stood ramrod stiff as a cadre of young Asian men made a show of photographing her.  The scene was hard to miss.  She nearly glowed in the sunshine, set off by the black outfits of her companions. Plus, the one photographing – filming? – repeatedly circled her with the camera as she stood, expressionless.  She seemed uncomfortable with the attention they were giving her.



In another direction were two small children.  As their parents stood by, they took turns chasing pigeons – a sport of generations of kids.  (If only it was a formal sport -- how fun would that be to watch?)  These siblings were unaware of the adults around who smiled as they passed, remembering, perhaps, their own kids’ pigeon-hassling. For these two, there was only the joy of the chase.



The backdrop to these two scenes?  An open-air art show.  Which got me thinking.

My art has always had a tension between two forces.  There’s the gravity of art: the weight of making something important or beautiful or invested with meaning.  And in the other corner, wearing the footie pajamas, is whimsy. For me, one is awkwardly self-conscious. The other, lightweight.  I want to create something with depth, but find the seeking joyless, like the gaze of the young woman.  But the pursuit of significant art through whimsy has been as fruitful as trying to catch a pigeon.



For years, the mitigating factor was time.  Facing me on the building across the street was this sculpture, which made me smile. How I know the weight of creating under pressure of deadlines!  That pressure has been removed, for the most part, thank God.



So, where am I left?  Still not sure.

At the end of my bench-sitting, I got up and wandered over to the art show.  The first image I came to was this painting.  I can’t say this represents the right balance for me, but there’s no denying there is a playfulness at the heart of this artist’s work.



I’ll keep exploring. You know, maybe the point, after all, is not to catch the pigeon.  It’s just the delight of making one take flight.

Benched #20: a bit foggy

A cemetery alongside of a college campus is a striking contrast.  I chose a bench between the two mostly because the early fog demanded a moody photo – a film noir expectation. Morning on the moor. But after I got a few shots, and as an occasional bleary-eyed college student passed by, the contrast began to loom in my thoughts.

Looking back, looking forward.  On one side, the vitality of youth.  On the other, a somber reminder that our days are finite.

This past weekend, I scribed at a college event.  (My new profile pic is from one of those sessions.) Being with students was invigorating. Their enthusiasm was infectious.  There was a potency of conviction that was undiluted by life’s contrariness, a sense of purpose that wasn’t eroded by disillusionment.  They could be serious.  They could be silly.  They could be seriously silly.



As I sat on the bench, the chill in the air was a tactile link to my own college days, which seem to be coupled in my memory to brisk walks amidst falling leaves.  I remember that time fondly. During those years, I formed a philosophical underpinning for my life that has carried me through the ensuing decades.  I’ve built my life upon it.

But now, I find myself pushed to re-examine that foundation. 

Maybe it’s that erosion thing.  Perhaps it’s the reminders of mortality, regularly chiming the hours like the clock tower on campus.  We’re watching Alison’s mother approaching her final days – it’s hard not to wonder about one’s own end, and attempt to add up the total of one’s efforts.



So, I’m a bit foggy.  I’m longing for the vitality of youth tempered, but not worn down by, a seasoned perspective.  Aged enthusiasm: oxymoronic?

A couple of days ago, I read this from C. S. Lewis: “Do the present duty—bear the present pain—enjoy the present pleasure—and leave emotions and ‘experiences’ to look after themselves.”  Well said, old man.  I intend to strive to live more in the moment, investing energy into whatever task I’m facing.

Though… maybe I should make an effort to add some college students into my life.  A little mid-morning sunshine is a great way to burn off the fog.

 

Benched #19: threads

Times Square got me thinking about threads.

It was warm and the tourists were crowded onto the bleachers that took in the famous view.  I found aspot to sit.  The streets around me were so filled with life they demanded a photo, but I knew whatever I took wouldn’t do it justice.  But that’s true of all of the cities I’ve been in – whether New York, London, Cairo, Beijing, or Delhi.  Hustle and bustle translate into photographic clutter.

There is, though, something unique about Times Square. Flowing all around me were languages I didn’t know – call the spot the Bleachers of Babel.  Hardly a word of English could be heard.

Think of the world as a globe wrapped in threads, each thread representing the unraveling travel of a tourist.  Not only would many of them transect New York, nearly all of those would pass through this little conjuncture.  And honestly, there’s not much to see in Times Square.  It’s why people seem to congregate on those benches -- from all over the world to sit with me.  How sweet of them.

I enjoyed the faces. Like this striking, leprachaunish beard. 



And this man I swore looked French (his speech proved otherwise.) 



And best of all, a “shady” family. 



I wondered about their stories.  Perhaps it’s the untapped novelist in me, butI find myself frequently passing people in cities or airports and looking for clues to their narratives.

Surrounded on the bleachers by so many untold stories, I was drawn to consider the global threads that have converged in my life.  Alison and I have always shared a tenderness toward international people.  Many have come through our house.  Some have stayed for weeks.  It’s delightful to have the time to explore some of those hidden narratives.

One couple in front of me got my attention.  They were Asian, perhaps in their seventies, and they sat with an uncanny patience, hardly talking, but nestling close to each other in an obvious comfort and tenderness.  They had taken their journey together.  This past summer, Alison and I had a few of those joint adventures.  Because of timing,they’re rare.

But it might be time to think once again about the international people who come through our town. Time to have our world opened up a bit by hearing a narrative unlike our own.

And find those common threads that tie us all together.

Benched #18: it looks so small from the outside

It’s not every week I get to view my bench location from above.  But if I had taken the time on a previous trip to San Jose (please don’t start singing the song), I would have seen this park out of my hotel window.  But, before I started this pursuit, I didn’t look out of hotel windows much.



That’s changing. I’m learning to slow down.  Benching myself has been a lesson in observing, in how to sit quietly and actually inhabit the space in which I find myself.  It has begun to fundamentally alter me.  I notice more.  I talk less. I’m a bit quicker to listen.

But my benched state is nothing compared to Paula’s.

In a park with a surplus of homeless people, I chose a bench near the fountains, since it seemed to be a point of convergence for people,and because an elderly woman sat on the one end – someone I might be able to talk to. 



We did end up chatting. It took some effort.  She was friendly, but answered questions with simple, short answers.  She liked to sit and watch the people.  Her favorite passersby were moms with strollers – they reminded her of her six kids, now all grown.  No, she didn’t know if the old guy picking off flower heads was the gardener.  But she might have seen him before.



Paula seemed to be in a benched zone far beyond me.  After fifteen minutes, I’m generally restless.  It’s work to be still.  For her, stillness seems like a way of life.

Years ago, I read that there are some people who enter a room as if to say, “Well, here I am!” There are others who enter with more of “Ah, there you are!”  Those of us who are storytellers recognize ourselves in the former, and sometimes long to have more of the empathy of the latter.  I don’t think I ever want to lose the ability to spin a tale, or tell a joke well, or write a meaningful essay – how am I doing, by the way? – but I’m seeing the value in seeing.  Open eyes precede an open heart.

Sitting next to Paula, I saw things a bit from her perspective.  Things that made me smile.  The cowboy ice cream man.  The kids in the fountain.  Best of all, Mr. Gardener in the fountain.

It’s a funny thing.  Paula’s world seems so small.  Her apartment is across the street from the park. I would bet she picks this same bench each time.  But inside that world there is a panorama of delicate details, a delicious buffet of slices of life.

Seems pretty big when you get inside it.

Benched #17: sitting in a stream

Would you rather be the river or the rock?

The question came to me as I propped my camera on the balcony of Grand Central Terminal in NYC and set a slow shutter speed.  The ensuing photo showed only the people standing.  Those walking were ghosted trails.  Mere smears.  Currents that ran around the solid forms, like water around stones.



My new life makes me feel like I’m one of those currents.  Leaving and coming home then leaving again, I live in a rhythm that doesn’t work with the solid, stolid life of a small town.  I’m out of synch.  I only materialize when I slow down.

Slowing down is what being benched is all about.

But, surprisingly, finding a bench in Grand Central is not so easy.  Apparently, they don’t want to encourage people to sit, though people do resign themselves to the floor. 



I decided against the official waiting room, where the benches seemed like a punishment for those unlucky travelers who had somehow screwed up their train schedule. That left only the subterranean eating area for me.

Downstairs, I sat down in the middle of a long bench to eat my food.  Around me people ate their dinners quietly, with the exception of a young Asian woman, sitting bolt-upright next to me against the hard bench.  She was having aloud conversation with someone, apparently invisible. 



I realized, as I often do in airports, that she must have been using a Bluetooth with her phone.  Her friend on the other end seemed to be a patient listener, for she endured the woman’s fast-flowing stream of emotion.  Each sentence seemed like a verbal punch.  At one point, I heard her say, “I can see right through them.  But they can’t see me!”

It made me think of the ghost trails upstairs.

I glanced over at her again. That’s when I realized that I was wrong.  She didn’t have a blue tooth. She was a very solitary rock in her own stream of spoken thoughts.

How sad.

Just then, a little face appeared right beside mine.  A boy, about five years old, had climbed the back of the bench from his side as his parents called after him.  I couldn’t resist – I hastily scribbled a drawing of a dog and handed it to him. He tumbled back down his side and showed it to his parents and siblings.  I now had four faces peering over, asking for drawings.  The oldest was too busy eating a hot dog to care.

My interaction with the family – Hasidic Jews on a day’s vacation into Manhattan – made me realize that my art is indeed an anchor for me.  I won’t be able to change the nature of my schedule.  But I can become a little less elusive by using my creativity to connect to people. 

Just like I’m doing right now.

Benched #16: looking up

It’s my birthday.  I am celebrating it by lying on a hard bench, my right foot elevated on the arm rest, watching jets fly overhead and hearing the echo of giants playing nearby. 

That’s Giants.  But not Jets.  At least, not tonight.

The Sheraton in the Meadowlands would not be my first choice for a birthday destination.  But I’m here, making my return to the business world and the world of busyness, after a two-week hiatus.

It’s funny how time is so mutable.  Had the two weeks been vacation, they probably would have felt too short, like I had hardly been away.  But they were far from fun.  My wife had significant surgery.  (She’s on the mend.)  At the same time, I had an unfortunate arrival of a kidney stone.  (I’m much better, too.) Soon after, I seriously sprained my ankle.  (Hence the elevated foot.)  And because of the hardship, the time span feels more like an eon, like I’m awakening from some Van Winkle slumber to find the world had moved on without me.

Difficulty can be isolating.



How strange it is to step outside of the flow of regular life. But being a bit removed gives a fresh vantage point.  It’s a matter of perspective.  When I teach watercolor to seventh graders in our town, I always make a point about how we all tend to set the “camera” at eye level when we draw or paint.  It’s good to move that lens around – sweep it up above and look down from a bird’s eye view, or place it on the ground and get a worm’s view. 

Given the choice, I’d rather be the bird.  Been feeling a bit wormlike lately.

But earlier tonight, after a grueling drive in traffic, ankle aching, I met the team of co-workers I have collaborated with so many times.  And though, over dinner, they talked about all the events they’ve been doing without me, I realized once again how intriguing and inviting is this work that I do.  I can feel that eagerness beginning to spark inside of me.

So now, I lay on a bench, looking up.  Watching the sky.  Following the planes as they cross my line of vision.  Thinking about how I’ll most likely be on one soon, looking down.  Back into the flow of things.

And I’m thankful for the new outlook.  Even if it had to come the hard way.