Benched Week 81: prepared surprises

For all his storied skill at twist endings, William Sidney Porter (AKA O. Henry) never mastered the surprise beginning. And yet, here I was at the O. Henry Hotel in Greensboro, NC, having had only half a day’s notice to get there. The hotel itself was filled with unexpected delights, from its dark-wood lounge...



...to the free copy of the namesake’s book in the room.



And so, when my event ended in the early afternoon, I went out into the blistering heat -- mentally adding bloggers to the short list that included mad dogs and Englishmen -- to walk to the nearest potential site for an interesting bench: Bog Garden. I was determined to find a surprise ending to the outing.



The garden itself was an anomaly. Acres of soggy forest are not what one anticipates in the middle of office complexes and shopping centers. On my chosen bench, I watched a blue heron serenely stalk in still water only a short distance from a Harris Teeter.



As I strolled the twisting boardwalk through the wetlands, I came across a man pointing a zoom lens at the dense foliage. “What are you trying to shoot?” I asked.

“That, over there,” he answered, pointing to a large bird on a distance branch. I recognized it from books as a barred owl, and just as quickly regretted that I don’t travel with my telephoto lens.



We talked for a while. His name was Tom and he was an avid birder and amateur photographer. He regularly visits the bog with camera in hand since, he said, it the best place in Greensboro to see birds of all kinds. That owl, I thought, would be the perfect surprise to wrap up this post, but it was just too far away. I thanked Tom for the insights and started back, disappointed.

Can we plan for surprises? I think we can in two key ways. First, we can put ourselves in situations where unpredictable things happen. Step outside one’s comfort zone, even if it means a hot walk in the midday sun. We wall ourselves in with predictability. Sometimes we need to scale those walls.



And then, we need to decide what a surprise is. If we had the facility to recognize the extraordinary nature of seemingly ordinary things, our days would be filled with wonder. Is it any wonder that children are so easily amazed?

Perhaps I just needed to find something a little less remarkable than a shot of a barred owl in the daytime.

That’s when I heard someone calling me.

It was Tom. I hurried back along the boards and found him. “I wasn’t sure you heard me,” he said, quietly. “But he’s moved.”

And there was the owl, sitting within the reach of my lens. It was in just the right place for a surprise ending.

Just like me.

Porter would be proud.

Benched Week 80: moments and memories

It had not been my plan to find a bench before my son’s wedding. But we arrived at the gorgeous Chadds Ford farm on Sunday morning with time to spare. Finding myself alone in the barn with this rustic bench right before me, I sat down and took a few moments to let it all soak in.



As you know, if you regularly read this blog, I’ve discovered that co-creating has become a major theme for me. Sitting on the bench, I had a chance to consider how many people had contributed ideas for the event that was about to happen.



A great number of the decorating ideas came from my son and his bride. The use of the farm-grown peonies on the tables. Mason jars coated inside with paint. Strings of lights.  Drapery.



Copies of the same day of the New York Times crossword puzzle were placed at each setting, commemorating the bride’s recently-departed, beloved grandfather’s hobby.



Her mom planted flowers outside. Her sister baked 200 cupcakes.



My wife added timely suggestions. My eldest son used his problem-solving expertise to hang various adornments.



I contributed my hand-lettering, first on direction signs.



   And then on the welcome chalkboard.







I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me to realize that a wedding is a collaborative event.   After all, two families, linked by a relationship, come together and share their abilities and talents to create a memory – not just for the happy couple but also for those who come to join them in celebrating. It’s a communal experience, meant to give each person a story, which they then take home and shape as they retell it.

The collaboration, then, isn’t just in the making of the event (or, for that matter, a piece of art). The co-creating continues through the shaping of each person’s memory of what happened. It’s ongoing.



Just like a relationship. I’m so happy for my son and, now, daughter-in-law. They have a whole life ahead of them to use the everyday materials of life to fashion experiences – for them and for others – that can be framed and enjoyed throughout the years ahead.

Co-creating. It’s what a wedding – and a marriage -- is all about.

Benched Week 79: the deliberation of seeds

I had almost given up trying to find something interesting in my little patch of Corporateland, USA – aka downtown Arlington, VA. Above the park I chose, the looming buildings looked like giant Lego constructions.



There were a few green spaces to choose from, nestled between the corporate centers with their first-floor restaurants. One fountain glowed dramatically down a shaded walkway.



But it all seemed so cold and calculated. Pretty. But lifeless.

Until I saw Mackenzie out of the corner of my eye.



That’s the name given to this little child, poised with a watering can over a patch of dirt, presumably having just planted a seed. An inscription nearby said, “There now, you can grow.” Mackenzie forever lingers in wait over that spot, anticipating.



I can relate.

Growth is a deliberate process. Frustratingly slow. Whether it’s a garden plant or an idea or a child, growth demands patience in the waiting and diligence in the working. We do our part to get the environment right to encourage sprouting. But the progress has its deliberate pace. It’s hard to see the incremental changes.



But there’s pleasure in the unfolding. I know it’s pathetic to check my little vegetable garden out back twice a day, but I can’t help myself. Knowing I won’t see much difference, I’m comforted to know it’s changing, if ever so imperceptively. One day these yellow blossoms will be replaced with zucchinis. Far too many zucchinis.

And when they come, time will play that shimmering trick where it is, simultaneously, a blink of the eye and an eon. Too fast and too slow.



Thinking of this on my bench, a new sound grabbed my attention: the sound of a trumpeter, busking near the subway.

And it made me think of Will, our trumpet-playing son, who is to be married on Sunday. And though I’m tempted to wonder where the time has gone, I know the answer: into a long parade of moments. Some exhilarating. Some challenging. But all a part of the process of becoming. All watched over with the preparation and patience that parents know so well.  As do artists. And gardeners. Ever checking the conditions so as to say:

“There now, you can grow.”

Benched Week 78: master class

A bluebird landed ten yards ahead, as my good friend, Scott, and I emerged from the woods.  I fumbled with my camera, eager to catch the wonderful juxtaposition of the brilliant bird on a dark, weathered sign.  I checked the settings, raised the long lens, and…

...it was gone.

I hadn’t been ready.

But that’s why Scott and I had each set aside this day from our busy travel schedules: to help me learn from him how to take better nature shots.  He’s an internationally known nature writer and speaker.  What is not as well known is his keen understanding of photography.   I had asked him to give me a few tips.  He was eager to help.

The first lesson was to better understand the combinations that went into taking a long, slow capture of a waterfall to give the rapids a silky feel.



On the way back, I had missed a dramatic framing of a chipmunk perched in a ray of light on gnarled tree roots eye level with the path.  But it caused me to notice this rather grumpy-looking fellow.  Scott showed me how to use the tripod and a timer to get a richly detailed shot of him.



A little later, we came across this butterfly.



In this world of instant online tutorials, instruction is easy to find.  But videos and web-guides are a pale comparison to a flesh-and-blood instructor.  Teachers have enthusiasm.  And lessons fit more into a broader context.  For Scott, nature photography is more than configuring f-stops and film speed.  It’s about knowing the subject matter.

Sensing my disappointment over missing the bluebird, he said, “Let’s sit on that bench.  The signpost is most likely one of his territorial perches.  He’ll be back.”



And sure enough, a few minutes later, the bird returned.  I got my shot.  And with it, I realized that a major reason why I enjoy photography is because it is another way to co-create.  Nature provides impromptu, unexpected opportunities, ready to be a part of a new, creative work.  But as Louis Pasteur said, "Chance favors a prepared mind."  Those opportunities test my preparedness and knowledge and artist's eye. Even the bluebird seemed to turn to me with a lecturing look that said, "You ready now?"

Of course, it's easier to be prepared for a test with the teacher at my side giving me the answers!

Benched Week 77: public faces

Do you think you can read a person by his or her face?  And conversely, do you think the face you present to the world accurately depicts you?



I mulled these over this week as I roamed around the Detroit Institute of Arts.  My original intent was to build on last week’s post and find something that represented  “secret spaces.”  But though I found some interesting paintings, none seemed to quite fit.

Then, in my wanderings, I noticed the grand hall decorated for a reception.



Not long after that, I saw the reason: a bride and her entourage.



I wondered what possesses a person to put herself on display in such a public way.  It’s one thing to be surrounded by friends and relatives; it’s entirely another to be intentionally engulfed by hundreds of gawking tourists.  (Not to mention sly amateur photographers.)



But as I sat on a bench and reflected on the art around me, I realized that artists have always been doing that: putting themselves on display.  And nowhere is that more evident than in self-portraits.  The museum had a number of them.  Some I recognized.


 



Some I didn’t.  But were impressed with all the same.



There’s something bold and revealing – and vulnerable -- about putting one’s face in a painting.  A self-portrait invites strangers to come up and engage, to decide for themselves what kind of a person this painter seems to be.

It’s ironic that in my life, I’ve turned my back on audiences.  Literally. Pay no attention to the man in front of the curtain – that interplay of words and pictures I weave.  I’ve become the man of a thousand typefaces.  Or of at least a half-dozen.  But I’m convinced that anything we create as humans speaks about our true selves – whether it’s the paintings we make or the words we write.  The clothes we select.  Our gardens.  Our houses.  The mugs we drink out of.  The mugs we look out of.

My deep desire it to make all these things in my life speak to who I am.  Or better yet, the person I’m becoming.

And put that best face forward.

Benched Week 76: secret spaces

Growing up, I had a number of places I could go to be alone – special spots to call all my own: a semi-hidden crawl space in the wall of my bedroom.  A tree house.  A row of neighborhood forsythias, under the arching branches of which I buried a tin of treasures.  And an abandoned stone mansion next door.

I’m sure you had your own special spots, too.

The memories of my secret spaces came back to me as I walked a path in an arboretum (read: a patch of scruffy woods) near Princeton, N.J., and came across a brooding, neglected house with a single, soulless eye of a window on its weathered face.



Nearby, a shed held another surprise.



Clearly, these buildings attract the curious.  And, judging by the contents of the tub, they draw those serendipitously carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels.   Such obvious reasons aside, I wondered what it was that cause us to seek out (or create, as with blanket forts) corners of concealment.  Was it the thrill of being the sole owner of the knowledge of such a place?

How I wished there were a bench nearby to ponder this.

That bench turned out to be in a pleasant park on the way back to the hotel. 

By the time I found it, the sunlight was in its golden hour.  I sat and took some shots of a red-winged blackbird perched on rustling reeds.



A young dad came by, strolling with his daughter.  We greeted each other then he pointed out to her the Canada geese on the pond with a line of goslings between them.  We stood to watch them.


And I realized that a moment in time can be a secret space, as well.  To “own” the knowledge of the uniqueness of the situation – the play of light on the water, the breeze, the effortless gliding of the geese, the cuteness of the goslings – it feels like a treasured thing.  A clandestine gift.

But it’s a gift to be shared.  A moment like that can be a burdensome pleasure: we want to pull someone else in to enjoy it with us.  There is a longing to have others join us in the space.  Not "Keep Out!" but "Come in!"  Check out my treehouse.  Crawl under here with me.  Look what I found! 

Look what I found.  That’s the spirit of this blog, I think.  I find little, secret places – surprising moments – and invite you to share them with me.  I'm glad to have the company.

So tell me: what was your secret space growing up?

Benched Week 75: listen up

Two years ago, this blog started in this park.  Back then, I said I couldn’t see the river for the trees, both literally and metaphorically.  Today, the park was quite different.  Brush was cleared away, giving me a panoramic view of the flowing water.

How apropos.

This two-year journey has given me clarity, as well.

I notice things more.  And not just visually.  I’ve learned to tune into the sounds around me, as well. (Though Alison, reminding me last night of something she told me before, might not agree.)

For instance, I listen now to the language of birds.



It started a month ago, as I helped Grace learn bird calls for a project.  Suddenly, a world of meaningful sound opened up to me.  The cacophony of early morning chattering has become a chorus of individual voices, like being in a loud party and suddenly discerning each individual conversation.  And I can’t stop hearing them now.

Like the single, strong chirp of a Baltimore oriole in a nearby tree.



Or the loud churr of a northern flicker.



Or the scolding mews of a catbird.  (Not worth picturing.  Let's not encourage them.)

We’re so good at tuning things out.  It’s a necessary skill to navigate through life.  But I think it’s the job of art to be a spotlight that swings around in the periphery of our lives, saying, “Look at this!”

Look at all these benches!

Look at all these birds!

Look at all these mugs!

I've started a new experiment in crowd-sourced creating called Mugshots on Facebook. People send me photos of their favorite mug, I post them, others comment, and I hand write the comments into the photo.

I think my quest had been clarified in that sense: try to find ordinary things bring into that spotlight.  For me and for you to notice.




A few months ago, as a joke, I came up with a symbol to represent me.

It means, “Watch this!”  Though it originally pertained to my scribing, it equally fits this clarified quest to look over something previously overlooked.  And let's view it together.



So, two years in, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll keep blogging about benches.  I’ve already slowed down how often I post them. But as long as there are interesting things to point out – and readers to point them out to – I’ll keep looking.  And listening. 

And sitting.