attention

from the archives

Bean harvesting as a metaphor for life

I’m not exactly sure what the metaphor is right now, but as I crouched in the bean fields this morning–pulling up corn stalks, searching for bean pods to pluck– an inkling of an idea emerged. The dark purple bean pods harken to the depth of color the sea boasts when the sun has just set. Mirroring the beauty of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s asters and goldenrods tale, the bleached-dry-by-the-sun-in-the-sky corn stalks provide a soft background for the rich hues of those frijoles to pop out at me. But as I am about to move on to the next clump of corn, I give my patch a final once- over, and lo, a great chunk of beige-ish beans I was about to abandon. Heavens! If I hadn’t bean (HA) gazing intently at this pile of dried out plants, I would’ve missed the beans’ presence. Perhaps that is the metaphor. What do we miss when we are not paying attention to the world that surrounds us? Sometimes you have to be looking for something, actively and attentively, in order to find it. Attention. Perhaps that is the point I am grasping for. Attention to detail, to diminuitve things, to ordinary things, to ordinary beauty, to ordianry miracles. What am I letting captivate my attention? What is passing me by while I sit with my eyes glossed over, uninspired by whatever it is that’s out there?

12.15

Mary Oliver once wrote, “Attention is the beginning of devotion.” And that phrase has been floating around in my brain these days. Often, I am not paying close enough attention. Too often, I do things that are a “foolish waste of precious time.” I’ve been reading My name is Asher Lev and apart from other tidbits of its genius, I am drawn in by Chaim Potok’s captivating language. I am in Asher’s world. I cann see the dark clouds looming over the city and the rivulets of rain cascading off my roof, feelthe harshness of the wid, the desolaion of the night. One cannot write with such stark sentiments if she has not been paying attention to the world around her, soaking up the subtleties, taking note of the minutia of her existence.

A butterfly that is so small it seems to be a figment of my imagination. A piñata that is a cross between a snowman and a chicken. The pastor kneels on the grass, making a fervent plea to the Lord, pointing his flock towards communion, convivencia. We raise our hands in gratitude, rejoicing in the sunshine, in the verdant nature, in ourselves.