NOT WHAT I CAN’T

It started with an ordinary bunch of seasonal flowers, the kind I once picked up at the Farmer’s Market—back in the days when it was safe to venture into crowds of people bunched as closely as the fresh pickings that beckoned seductively from portable tables under pop-up tents; back when the fragrance of flowers packed tightly in Mason jars rose valiantly over the musty smells of earth and the salty whiff of glistening shoppers. 

How I love the freshly cut offerings of Spring and early Summer. Their rag-tag blossoms are compelling precisely because they lack the artifice of more structured bouquets. Their random assemblage delights me because it gives more than it gets and requires almost nothing from me. No floral foam bricks, no frogs, no wires, none of the props employed by more gifted designers. My steps for arranging a bouquet read like the box of a ready-mix, no bake dessert. ‘Select one appropriately sized pitcher (a vase or a jar will do), trim stems, place flowers in container, add water, and enjoy.’ I have employed this technique so often I no longer have to read my own directions. 

Floral fortune has smiled on me especially brightly for the last few months. Neighbors on both sides have filled my life with flowers, almost as if in coordinated effort to make sure I didn’t forget that beauty still exists in a world darkened by grief and fear, and where sicknesses of body and soul compete for top billing on the nightly news. 

On one side, I have my thoughtful and generous daughter-in-law who, ingeniously intent on bolstering the local economy and my spirits simultaneously, had farm fresh flowers delivered weekly. Long-lived blossoms, their stems kept strong in water, took center stage in the dining room until their tired petals fell silently in permanent repose. Other flowers, not giving up so easily, chose to dry rather than die and live on in more permanent arrangements throughout the house.

On the other side, my talented and industrious neighbor brightened my days by posting her photographs of flowers. With a lens and an artful eye, she transforms flowers from farms and neighborhood gardens into still-life masterpieces. No vases or pitchers distract from the intense beauty of the flowers. A black backdrop removes the challenge of competing hues so that the shyest of shades feels free to show off. Often a single naked flower stands unblinking in its beauty, unembarrassed by its flaws, its stalwart dignity not letting the bruising from a harsh rain or the scars of a tormenting insect keep it from sharing what it still can offer.

I tried recently to explain to my neighbor how much her photographs moved me. The intent and intensity of my meaning must have been lost across the socially distanced span because, in response, she replied, “Do what I do. Just take pictures of the flowers in the neighborhood when you go for a walk.” 

“No, I can’t,” I laughed. And I knew I couldn’t.

As much as I would love to interpret my world through the lens of a camera, I haven’t yet mastered centering and focus, not to mention aperture or F-stop. Particularly during these trying days where real friends have been reduced to talking heads and conversations across intimate tables now take place via internet devices, a creative outlet that produces beauty or touches other people was particularly appealing. As I bemoaned my lack of photographic talent, a life motto floated through my thoughts, “Do what you can and not what you can’t.” 

Suddenly my mind was embroiled in one of its internal dialogues. “Well, if you can’t take photos, what can you do?” 

“Well, I can clean out my kitchen cabinets and sort through 50 years of pictures.”

“But what else can you do that would bring you joy and might be shared with others?”

“Hmmm. Oh. I see what you mean. I can write. I love to do it and people don’t mind reading it.”

“So, why aren’t you doing it?”

And so I did. But before I wrote, I began to think more about the opportunities at hand and less about the restrictions currently in place; I focused more at what I had and less on what I’d lost; I focused on an envelope of memorabilia I could cull and not on the boxes stacked in the closet. Then I began to write. (A recent post about savoring a deep woods experience from my front porch was a direct result.)

In recent days, I have thought a lot about what it means to ‘Do what you can and not what you can’t.’ It seems that too often we focus on the second half of the sentence and less eagerly on the first. It serves as a flippant excuse to avoid what we do not want to do—or can’t do without considerable effort. It has become the lumpy, yet familiar, place of repose, a piece of mental furniture we should replace but don’t because we have grown accustomed to its mind-numbing contours.

For me, the phrase ‘what I can’t’ has become the wake-up call to look toward what I can. When I cannot take a trip, it reminds me to enjoy the beauty of my yard. When I miss having coffee dates, it reminds me to call friends or write a note. When I can’t stop a dripping faucet, it reminds me to call the plumber. When I can’t clean the whole house, it reminds me to wash the dishes or pick up offending crumbs. 

When I want to capture the beauty of a moment, the smile of a child, the blush of fresh picked flowers, and have neither the camera or the skill, it reminds me to write—to do what I can and not what I can’t.

VACATION CAME TO ME

Overcast skies lost their battle to fight back their tears. They lacked the roiling determination of blacker clouds, so they did not succumb to hiccoughing sobs over what should have been a sunny, almost-summer day. Rather they simply allowed droplets to ooze steadily from their dreary gray, then roll through the leaves of gently swaying trees, skid over roofing shingles, and drop softly to the ground.

The soaked vegetation was a fitting tribute to my dampened plans. I stared into unending dreariness from my front porch chair, armed against the unseasonal chill with steaming coffee and cozy blanket. I needed time to absorb the pain of turning in a ‘no’ RSVP for an event I desperately wanted to attend and cancelling a hotel reservation made six months ago.

This was just the latest in voided travel plans. 2020 has been a year upended for me, a woman who would rather travel than eat—although if you travel, you know the absence of food is rarely an issue. From March through August, I had planned to visit four states and seven European countries. Holidays, birthdays, funerals, a retirement ceremony, excursions, and vacations all washed away by a global pandemic.

From my perch on the porch, I looked down on robins frolicking in tiny puddles and snacking on worms pulled effortlessly from sodden ground. I scowled only slightly at the woodpecker tapping a steady rhythm on a pine. “Nice to finally meet you,” I thought, putting sight to the sound heard so frequently from inside my doors. I enjoyed the irony of our reversed positions—these birds beneath my gaze usually perched on branches and looked down at me.

Breathing deeply of the rain-washed air, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the distantly remembered fragrance of wet pine trees and musty soil, a smell that took me back to years of camping in the Smoky Mountains. Instantly I was transported to another place and time, and the deep relaxation that comes from hours and days in a pine-filled woods.

Memories of crawling from a tent in the dew of early morning washed over me with the soft insistence of a soggy day. I thought of the tender bodies still curled into sleeping bags, not yet ready to face another day of dad-planned hikes. My fingers felt the warmth of the pink Melamine mug full of coffee brewed on a Coleman stove and handed to me by my ‘rise-to-meet-the-dawn’ husband and his tow-headed side-kick who awoke early on camping trips to have daddy all to himself. Often we pitched our tent by a stream, nestled under trees and so sheltered from the sun that even during the hottest days, the smell of pine and moldy dampness lingered—not unpleasantly.

Now, from the comfort of my urban porch, I once again savored the rich smells of a rain-soaked woods. I looked more closely at the intricacies of a thousand shades of green. I watched a rabbit hop slowly into the bushes while squirrels played tag in the trees. I heard the subtle rustlings of small creatures through tall grass. My heart picked up the beat to nature’s rhythm. 

I discovered I wouldn’t really need travel itineraries, airline tickets, hotel reservations, or road maps this year. Vacation came to me.