Presence

One of my uncle’s used to repeat some of his phrases, a diction tic that was endearing. Several years ago, driving my mom and I around San Francisco, he said to her, “Every day something new, right Mary?” And before she had a chance to respond, “Every day something new, right Mary?” I think about that often, because it still makes me smile, and because the simple truth of the statement applies, well, every day.

Over the years, I’ve walked the woods near work more times than I can count. I’ve been in them in all seasons, sometimes almost daily for weeks at a time. Recently, on a moody, gray autumn day, I sought those woods mid-morning to ground me, to bring me back to the present.

I had been in them at first morning light less than 24 hours before. In the short time since, the ground of the clifftop had become filled with tripping hazards, acorns tossed about like marbles on the floor, the walking path freshly blanketed with newly fallen leaves that hid some of the jutting stones. I was forced to pay attention to each step, slowing my pace more than I liked. Deep in the woods, the reckless wind, barely a whisper the previous day, rubbed two trees together, playing them like out of tune string instruments accompanied by a maraca rhythm of rustling leaves.

I entered the woods with a heart and mind as restless as the wind. Regardless of the wisdom of Rilke’s words, it can be hard to love and live the questions now, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart. Back at my desk, a few hours later, the rains came. The river that shone with glittering sunlight earlier was a blurry slow-moving slate gray, the George Washington Bridge a watermark of itself. And nothing was any clearer in my head or heart, but it no longer mattered. Every day there is something new, every hour, every minute.