Opened to the Prospects of this Day

Ever since experiencing them in their quintessential South Pacific habitat, we have potted a hibiscus plant on our deck.  Something about the blossoms -- whether pink or red or yellow or even orange -- is calming; soothing; slowing, like life in that island paradise.  The flowers open unreservedly; full face -- not so much as horticultural exhibitionists but rather echoing Eden's naive hospitality to the moment, as if to absorb anything and everything the sun or the clouds or the activities nearby might have to offer.  That's precisely the way we experienced the people of the islands -- present, open, attuned to each particular moment, recognizing that this moment is all we really have.  It is a strangely attractive, yet uncomfortably disorienting perspective for westerners like us bred and formed to plan and prepare and anticipate, occasionally remember, and live virtually anywhere except the present tense.  The very idea, for two people whose mother's milk was the Protestant Work Ethic, tempted us as something alluringly, almost borderline immoral.  We haven't been able -- actually, even remotely willing -- to let go of the idea.  What seemed so natural for those we met there among the blossoms has come to represent for us almost a spiritual discipline.

And so each spring we go out in search of the perfect hibiscus plant that can anchor the view on our deck; a reminder; an incentive. 

So it was that a week ago, while gathering a few extra bedding plants for the pots and the planter boxes, we kept our eyes open.  Unsuccessful, we finally asked an employee who showed us these bucket sized pots full of soil from which protruded a single wooden stub about 2-inches high.  Looking at our helper with barely veiled skepticism I asked, "Will I even still be alive by the time this thing puts out blossoms?" 

With the same kind of expression I'm guessing beamed from the face of the guy who traded Jack a handful of bean seeds for the family cow with the promise that they would produce a beanstalk that would reach to the clouds, the employee assured us that this perennial would be far superior to puny little plants with which we were more familiar.  "Blossoms the size of plates," he told us.  Fine, I thought.  If I live that long.

Nevertheless, we bought it; stuck it not in a pot on the deck but in the ground where it will supposedly reappear year after year after year in all its plate-sized blossoming glory.  And I will say that in the week since that planting already a sprig of new growth has emerged from the stump.  "August," he reassured us regarding its flowering.  Fine, but as energizing as anticipation can be, it sort of runs counter to the idea of focusing on the present.  So this weekend we plan to venture out again to the greenhouses in search of something for the pot on the deck -- a hibiscus plant with blossoms perhaps smaller but already opened to the prospects of this day, reminding us that we could be too.

The Fireworks of Both Heart and Sky

We are nearing an anniversary -- the 10th to be specific. On July 4, 1997 I proposed. Marriage, if specificity is still required. During the fireworks. I tried to convince her that the colorful explosions were just for her. She bought it -- the proposal, that is; not the bit about the fireworks. Even so, fireworks have been special to us ever since. They are festive, explosive reminders to us of all that has erupted from the chemical reaction of a timid but hopeful "Will you..." stirred together with an exuberant "I will!" So it is that for the 10th consecutive year we will make our way outside with a blanket and a grin, take our seats beneath a darkening sky, and wait for the curtain to open.

It is but the largest way we have tried to practice specificity. Our lives are not, after all, general conditions blurred together, but particular words and deeds and gestures and choices. Some of those particularities, like the anniversary of our engagement, are calendarized. Others are simply noticed and named at the time -- sometimes for the significance and celebration they represent; other times for the pain or the poignancy they have elicited. Regardless, we are trying to practice the fine art of paying attention -- to the details, but ultimately to their significance.

A taste. A touch. A compliment. An insight glimpsed. A kindness extended. A grace conveyed. Exhilaration. Awe. A lump in the throat. A tear.

And sometimes, in the midst of fireworks exploding, all of the above.

Present at the Airport

Sitting in the airport, people-watching the holiday travelers finding their way home, the space is crowded with absent people. Despite the occupied chairs and long lines, no one is really present; minds are cast forward to home and business-back-to-normal, memories are lingering over tables pulled out longer and lives reconnected and welcome home hugs too quickly become farewell embraces. No one is actually here, in the airport, in the uncomfortable seats, long lines and lugged luggage. With laptops whirring and ear buds entertaining, with an occasional book spread and ubiquitous cell phones dialing, with only an occasional eye flicked to the scrolling monitors on the wall, no one is really paying any attention to the people passing by, the weather outside, the person sitting nearby whose sagging carry-on is crowding your ankle, the service workers driving the beeping carts or pouring the overpriced coffee. That said, not even the service workers seem to be paying any attention, giving off every signal that they, too, would rather be anywhere but here.

It is transience in microcosm, hurried strides, panicked expressions, vacant stares, animated conversations -- some inane and others heartfelt and sensitive -- with some absent confidant, carried on in comfortable volume born of the assurance that no one else is around. And, of course, in a measure, they are correct. None of the bodies that crowd the space within easy earshot are really there. Faintly aware, perhaps, of a nattering and annoying buzz nearby, their minds are somewhere else. In every way that matters, they are simply not there.

Except, for one fleeting series of moments, me: present, if unwittingly so, to the woman sitting nearby talking too loudly into her cell phone to God knows who. I have now in my consciousness the name of the state in which she began her day, the different state where she would be spending her night, the business she would be transacting not only there, but in the neighboring cities as well. I can tell you that her travel schedule has kept her in the air and airports quite frequently of late, that she was surprisingly upgraded to first-class on her last leg, that she is weary, and that she looks forward to getting back home one of these days soon. And I can tell you that she is pregnant, with some kind of a stage 4 tumor that the doctors advise her not to have removed until the baby is born. “But I am doing fine,” she assured her telephonic confidant. “Really, I’m fine.”

I’ll take her at her word, but against my greatest wishes, I am present now with her and her reality. Present. And though she didn’t ask for my prayers – how could she? She had no idea that I was even present – I will remember her in them, praying that God bless her travels, her fatigue and renewal, her baby, and her health. Whoever she is.