Diversions

As I head for my sitting spot this morning, I notice a piece of wood that didn't make it onto the wood shed. Until recently it was covered with Snow, so I didn't see it. This got me thinking about how the path of this piece of wood is completely different from the path it would have had had it made it into the wood pile. Being under the snow for so long, I t is too wet to burn this year. Depending on when I get around to tossing it into the shed, it may end up being too wet to burn ever, as it may begin to rot. This is true for me to. A minor change happens and my journey gets diverted in a new direction.

Doe Lesson

I exit the cabin through the Eastern door with the Dog that lives with us. As I do, I scan what is in front of me, not wanting to miss someone before they run or fly or scurry away. Dog is very excited, but I see nothing. I wonder if she isn't noticing some kind of afterimage of the Deer who was here yesterday. Then, not forty feet in front of me, Doe flips her tail up and trots Northeast toward Pine grove. Once there, she lays down, and looks back at me.

I am grateful to Doe for reminding me how much I have to learn about truly noticing what is right in front of me.

Ash

Every morning, before I light the fire, I have to remove some of yesterday's ashes from the firebox. My culture teaches me to think about ash as the remnants of something, as refuse.

As I scoop the ash from the wood stove I notice how beautiful it is. There seem to be a million different grays and shades of black. The shapes are as plentiful, from tiny specs smaller than a grain of dust to larger flakes. I study them for a moment before I release them into the ash bucket, where they collapse, fragile as a Snowflake, and billow up like smoke.

I am struck by this beautiful transformation I am privileged to witness.

Me Lens

I wake to find Doe bedded down, just Northwest of the yurt. Heather is singing in the basement and Doe seems to be listening. Her big ears are directed toward the cabin, and here eyes are focused in this direction. But is she?

This gets me thinking about how often I see my creature cousin through the lens of me. I don't know if Doe is listening, but I know that, if it were me, I would be listening.

I work to peel away from the limits of my expectations and experience the intersection of Doe and me. Doe's eyes close as her head moves to look Southeast. Doe chews. Doe turns her head to the West. Doe stands. Doe reaches down to eat something.

These seem like non-evaluative statements, but I am left wondering if there might be even more for me to see if I move further away from the lens of me.

7 Billion Geniuses-Healing

Intersections II

Returning to the screen house, I find Housefly is still there. I sit momentarily saddened by her demise, then I notice she is moving. The air is warmer today, and will be warmer still later in the day, so I decide that I will move her outside, but as I contemplate my actions it occurs to me how often I assume myself as the only actor in these plays.

“What will I do,” I ask myself? But I am not the only actor. There is also Housefly, and the person who built the screen house, their parents, my parents and Housefly's parents; the list could go on and on.

This brings me once again back to the idea of intersections. All of these actor's actions have intersected in this moment. Housefly's most recent action was to move. Mine was to move her. I left her resting on the railing of the deck. I don't know what she will do next. I will go inside and eat my breakfast.

Intersection

I sit in the screen house and notice Housefly, frozen to one of the screens. It will be clod today, so I don't know if she will thaw out and fly again, nor do I know if she will survive even if she does. Her food is frozen and tonight the air will once again be too cold for her.

Housefly's path and mine have crossed in this moment, and she gets me thinking about how I might intervene. This brings me to consider my intentions. I realize I want to help her, but I don't know how. Then I realize that I don't even know what I mean by “help.” I could try to move her out of the screen house, but that might injure her, and she might already be dead, so moving her would be of no use. 

I am struck by this experience as Housefly challenges me to consider the complexity of the idea of “help.” As I sit with the question, I return to the idea of crossing paths. I realize that all the while I have been thinking about how my crossing Housefly's path may be of service to Housefly. Then I realize the powerful effects of Housefly having crossed mine.