Listen to the MUSTN’TS, child,
Listen to the DON’TS
Listen to the SHOULDN’TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT’S
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me-
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.
~ Shel Silverstein (Listen to the Mustn’ts)
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I can eat just one cookie, or a small scoop of ice cream and stop. Boggles my 1/2 gallon and handfuls of cookies husband’s mind. But stressed, I dive. Sweets & carbs. Sweet still small bites, but every day, all day. Carbs not so small. Half loaf of sweet apple bread from the gourmet bakery in an afternoon. A box of Trader Joe’s cheddar rockets every two days. TJ’s British muffins sometimes like popcorn. When the waistband gets tight, I wrangle the diet. Last week I knew I made it when I left Trader Joe’s without a refresher box of rockets, and the first ‘muffin’ after my weeklong moratorium was not divine. So much of our health is wrapped up in diet. But it’s not just what we eat. It’s what we see, hear, and do.
Lately my dawn walks are circling the 6 blocks of my townhome complex 3 times. Noting light on the buildings colored alternately celery, terracotta, antique white, sand, Florida pink and that weird pinky-beige in my crayon box called flesh. I hunt clouds, a blush of color above rooftops. Admire the rare blossoms on the crepe myrtles, magnolias, and gardenias that don’t last long in their pruned, manicured state (so diff from me). Some days I step out, walk the neighborhood of tiny, sometimes ranshackle, homes beyond. No feast for the eyes, but a diet of movement.
With surprise, I noticed the streetlight on the corner just outside our complex blinks off as I cross over. Sometimes the one on the other side, too. The others all still on. Light and time no matter. A tiny diet of anticipation. . .will it happen again today. It always does.
Streetlights are one a block in this neighborhood. If I walk halfway up a block and back again, I get a tad of nighttime like God meant it for a few moments. One morning, the sky already brightened, the birds full awake, I stood under a wire, listened to a mockingbird go thru her glorious repertoire. Admired the silhouette of a pine (?) that looked like it came from a children’s book. Tall trunk, round top. When the songtress abruptly stopped, lit to the street steps from my feet before flying to a rooftop ridge, I decided birdsong and night sky must be part of my daily diet.
One evening I saw a commercial plane so low overhead it looked the size of a toy I’d hold in my hand. Its lights big, like a sparkle ring on my finger. What surprised me most was how the roar of the engines trailed, like thunder to lightning. The plane overhead, the sound off to my left, chasing its tail. A tiny diet of wonder.
I watch my diet of words, but my desired diet of silence seems nearly impossible. A neighbor’s noisy a/c compressor buzzing 10 feet from our door. Hum of vehicles constant outside. I sometimes taste it Sundays at the bay when cars only trickle by, and late risers and herds of yakky runners stay home. One Sunday I followed a steady stream of cars at my back to the brightly lit pool where people gathered under tents for a swim meet. Continued up and around to where the palms are three deep. Enjoyed a dose of gratitude as I watched young squirrels drink from small, quarter inch deep puddles on the sidewalk.
A hearty diet of Beauty is necessary for my health. I find it in a pristine magnolia blossom. Not a brown spot or withered edge. Luscious. And right where I could lean in, my nose above the largest petal, inches from the thick cone of a stamen with rows of sleek, stiff ‘curls’ halfway up to the top. The most intricate, subtle texture on it. The fragrance so delicate and exquisite I stood for minutes. Took breath after breath. Or Kirsty Mitchell’s Wonderland book. The smell of Italian ink that still lingers. The feel of luscious paper on my fingertips. The feast of escape in the detail, color, fantasy on the pages. Stories, and a Queen, seasons of death & rebirth, and doors. A feast of fine craftsmanship.
I saw a video of two beautiful people dancing on a layer of water in a French piazza. Water splaying with the glide of their feet. No care who watched. It reminded me of the sorts of things I used to do. How I’m starved for travel and new experience right now.
I never get over the feeling shown in this picture.
Little kid. Big world. Not seeing around the corner, trusting a road laid by others. The wonder and majesty of our gorgeous planet. Big sky overhead that stretches to the stars I’m born of. That I’m one of the lucky ones safe to walk it.
Anything can be, Shel says.
What are your diets of sight, sound, feeling, and action?
Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
A favorite: The natural world close, out my door.
A secret: I’m starved for the natural world out my door right now, too.
Photo of child: Yang Wen
My son Drew is a tea connoisseur. For Christmas this past year, he asked for a tin of Republic of Tea’s Downton Estate Blend, a riff on Earl Grey tea, that he had seen at World Market. When he opened it, the most heavenly fragrance came out. Now on his second tin, whenever he gets it out he brings it over to me, to open and breathe deeply. Instant bliss!
Sweet. I so get it, as you can tell. I lost my sense of smell for a year. A byproduct of antibiotics for the first time in 20 yrs. for a sinus infection. I was bereft. Can still see that moment while cooking in the kitchen when I got a whiff of the spices, feel the joy. Knew I could smell again. Thanks for reading!