Girlwich

I've been trying to stay in the present, sitting with whatever is going on with me, rather than being compelled to race ahead of it - and that's a challenge for me, especially when the present has some feelings of loss attached to it. Some sadness, some unease about the future.

Anyone who's spent time with me in the flesh (no, I don't mean that kind of time in the flesh) knows that I have trouble sitting perfectly still. I fidget. I jiggle my feet, I knit. Heck, I don't even sit properly. I perch, as if I need to be ready to fly away.

I'm not very Zen. I tend to keep swimming rather than going with the flow.

I suppose that's not unusual; a lot of people have trouble keeping their eyes on what they have now, and who they are now, rather than what they hope to have or who they hope to be, or even what they used to have and who they used to be.

Heck, in the Middle Ages, folks in Christian Europe were so focused on the future that they considered this life to be a pale reflection of the all-important afterlife, with its promise of eternal salvation (or the less-pleasant alternatives). The Church made a fortune selling Indulgences to people who were desperate to buy their way into heaven.

What does that have to do with me? Well, I am trying not to be in such a rush about things. And I am trying to remember that the present, even with its sadness, and its fear, doesn't have to be run from. Really, it ain't so bad. She protests too much, eh?

But... I went for a walk in the rain, because I needed exercise, and I figured I could always wash the mud off when I got home. And it was fine, and then it started to rain harder, and blow up a bit stronger, and I was getting a little discouraged by my squelchyness. And I went into my local 5-and-dime to buy a lemonade pitcher (I like my windowsill tea cut in half with lemonade). And the man who runs the place is one of those people who are beautiful in a way that is hard to describe.

He's not handsome. He's middle aged, and bald, and wears horn-rimmed glasses. But he has this lovely gentleness that I've only encountered in a few people. Now and then you meet somebody who just strikes you as special. There's something about the way they talk, or look at you, that is so pleasant, so unaccountably sweet. This man is one of those.

We got to talking about the rain, as you do with people that you like who work in the little shops in your neighborhood. And he said that he was glad of the rain, because we needed it. I said I hadn't thought of it that way, but that yes, it had been quite dry, and maybe it was best that it rained so the plants wouldn't get all parched.

And then he said something remarkable: "God knows what to give." He said it with his sweet smile, and his general aura of kindness. And I smiled back, and said "I think you are right about that," and thanked him and went home to wash the mud off.

Now, whatever your feelings about religion, organized or not, I think there is something in the idea of having a basic faith like that that enables one to be happy with the present - to accept what there is today, and to relax about it. In my case, I walked away feeling grateful that God had decided to give me the gift of this wise shopkeeper and the need for a lemonade pitcher, so that I'd see him today, when I needed to.

I also thought how funny it was that I'd never really thought about the fact that present and gift are synonymous.

PS. Because it is raining today and I didn't carry either of my cameras, here are some more photos from my first day (and evening) with the Nikon.