Last April, when the heat uncharacteristically increased to May’s temperature, I set my alarm earlier and went out the gate at 5:00 a.m. into darker mornings. These memories are a collection from those walks.
Following the dirt lane, I hear a clattering sound that I haven’t noticed before—surprising, for all around me is silent. I stop entranced by this uneven rhythm and wondering, look around. Then I see them—the low, thick palms behind the estate stonewall that have layers of narrow palm fronds—the clatterers in a breeze. Suddenly I’m a child listening to my grandparents’ bamboo, then there are only the fronds, and I move along. A white bougainvillea that by day luxuriantly spills pristine white over a fence is nearly unrecognizable, grayed by dim light. Unexpectedly I’m disappointed; I’ve only known its beauty. Closer to the road, short trees are ominously dark—monsters with long, bare arms that reach out toward me, and I inwardly recoil. Then distracted by my flashlight’s find, I see the tips of tail feathers of a large bird settled on the road, but frustrating me, my light can’t keep up with its instant flight that quickly outdistances my light’s beam.
Now on the road, a pebble hampers my step, and so for safety, rather than balancing on one foot, I sit on the asphalt. In pulling off my canvas loafer, my attention is unexpectedly interrupted by a quieting feeling sweeping through me—a sensation of oneness with the road. How can this be? Yet it differs from how I feel walking. I begin thinking of all the seated men and woman Indians I have passed, sitting just as I do now, facing east, and how I have lacked in understanding. My awareness deepens. I remain almost mesmerized, until getting up.
But there’s added happiness to my steps to come. Not moving yet, I look up. There are no moon and planets, only stars—I count seventeen. At the tin home, the cows rest on folded legs. Under a blanket on the ground the man who milks them is asleep, his shoulder a mountain compared to the lower curves of head and legs.
The trees become leafier, friendlier, and I feel their protection, noticed with a simultaneously deeper relaxation. Water being pumped gurgles out a pipe into pathways through onion fields.
Silently I repeat three words. When thoughts interrupt (as they regularly do), I ask aloud, “Where am I and what am I doing?” returning my focus to my in breath and my out breath until I can resume my words. This happens over and over but awareness is improving at a pace suited to my readiness. My feet move without observation; I have developed trust.
A small antelope crosses the dirt lane through an opening in the fence and disappears—as if imagined. The regular birdcalls near my home repeat like a line of children rapidly going down a slide. With no houses, no streetlights, no sounds except for a motorbike or two and occasionally a car, this morning time compensates for the isolated hours I creatively fill by day.
My realization is, “We know only by doing. From an initial discomfort no longer resisted can come a creative change—first bringing new enjoyment and then gratitude.”*
* See “Six a.m. and a Gift”
Following the dirt lane, I hear a clattering sound that I haven’t noticed before—surprising, for all around me is silent. I stop entranced by this uneven rhythm and wondering, look around. Then I see them—the low, thick palms behind the estate stonewall that have layers of narrow palm fronds—the clatterers in a breeze. Suddenly I’m a child listening to my grandparents’ bamboo, then there are only the fronds, and I move along. A white bougainvillea that by day luxuriantly spills pristine white over a fence is nearly unrecognizable, grayed by dim light. Unexpectedly I’m disappointed; I’ve only known its beauty. Closer to the road, short trees are ominously dark—monsters with long, bare arms that reach out toward me, and I inwardly recoil. Then distracted by my flashlight’s find, I see the tips of tail feathers of a large bird settled on the road, but frustrating me, my light can’t keep up with its instant flight that quickly outdistances my light’s beam.
Now on the road, a pebble hampers my step, and so for safety, rather than balancing on one foot, I sit on the asphalt. In pulling off my canvas loafer, my attention is unexpectedly interrupted by a quieting feeling sweeping through me—a sensation of oneness with the road. How can this be? Yet it differs from how I feel walking. I begin thinking of all the seated men and woman Indians I have passed, sitting just as I do now, facing east, and how I have lacked in understanding. My awareness deepens. I remain almost mesmerized, until getting up.
But there’s added happiness to my steps to come. Not moving yet, I look up. There are no moon and planets, only stars—I count seventeen. At the tin home, the cows rest on folded legs. Under a blanket on the ground the man who milks them is asleep, his shoulder a mountain compared to the lower curves of head and legs.
The trees become leafier, friendlier, and I feel their protection, noticed with a simultaneously deeper relaxation. Water being pumped gurgles out a pipe into pathways through onion fields.
Silently I repeat three words. When thoughts interrupt (as they regularly do), I ask aloud, “Where am I and what am I doing?” returning my focus to my in breath and my out breath until I can resume my words. This happens over and over but awareness is improving at a pace suited to my readiness. My feet move without observation; I have developed trust.
A small antelope crosses the dirt lane through an opening in the fence and disappears—as if imagined. The regular birdcalls near my home repeat like a line of children rapidly going down a slide. With no houses, no streetlights, no sounds except for a motorbike or two and occasionally a car, this morning time compensates for the isolated hours I creatively fill by day.
My realization is, “We know only by doing. From an initial discomfort no longer resisted can come a creative change—first bringing new enjoyment and then gratitude.”*
* See “Six a.m. and a Gift”