Where's a Wideness?

Can you love a panoramic view and still meditate? 

Meditators (do they call themselves that?) focus on the little things, discover meaning in details, and evidently, distill that perspective to carry around in their bottles and sip anytime they’re thirsty during the day.  It's restorative to meditate.  

On the other hand, it’s like me to carry a speck of lint on my shoulder undisturbed all day long.  At least it’s not a chip.  (My folks gave me a chisel when I was a child and I was told to work on my chips; I’ve been doing that dutifully ever since.  At some point later, to my surprise, I discovered that not all parents start their children off in life with tools like that.  "Work on yourself, but don’t become what you’re not."  "Shape up; don't become shapeless.")

Sometime along the way, when I wasn’t looking so closely at myself, I made friends with a few fine-tuners who have an ear for clarity, and some eagle-eyed, who can zoom in and grasp their target with precision, or the connoisseurs who sniff around the rim and taste delicately in order to discover that “Ahh!” moment. 

Of course, like every human pursuit, these things can be done badly.  The knit pickers, the know-what-I-likers, the “ah-ha” momenters who plant their personal flags on new discoveries, despite that thousands of people have been there before them. 

I wonder if someone stepped quietly onto Plymouth Rock, glanced downward momentarily for sure-footing’s sake, before lifting her eyes to the treetops where her longing was perched.  So very, so ever green.   Some ancestor of mine. 

What’s over that hill?  The wagon train scout with the fringed leather jacket and the painted pony will know first.  However, he does not come racing in, heart pumping, fists gripping and back arching to pull back the bridle, only to announce soil contents, to announce the length of needles, to announce grains of sand.  No, he will exclaim that the place shines like gold, is vast and full and simply must be seen to be believed!  And the rest will come along and soak it in, sift it out, parse it up.  As well they should. 

I know, I know:  Be thyself.  But I never suspected, until recently, that the near-sightedness of aged eyes would impair some dispositions more greatly than others?  Figuratively.  By that I mean, those who have made a life by looking closely can still look closely after much time passes.  Those who need to climb mountains for the view from the top of things are hindered by details, like the sound of our joints snapping and that stride-limiting pain in one knee.    

So, is there a tool for those who continually seek a panoramic view of life, even this side of heaven?  Did I misplace it?  

Unless You've Been Here

            It’s the sort of place that covers its tables with brown, craft paper sometime beforehand. Very likely the same girls who had set-up earlier this afternoon are taking orders now.  I can imagine them hauling out a heavy roll from storage, then rough-cutting a rectangle for this table, pinning it down with a metal paper towel stand and placing the salt and pepper shakers as bookends for the laminated list of beers before moving on to the next table.  All readied without much thought, I guess, as I trace where the wooden table now stretches beyond the too-short, paper edge.  Or maybe they had other things on their minds.  Maybe they were talking about personal problems or neighbors or work.  Or everything else they had to get done before the dinner crowd arrived. 

            I’m in that crowd, waved to this table by a friend with a smile.  And glad for that.  This place used to be a grocery store.   Repurposed the way things often are around here.  I once bought bread off a shelf about where I’m seated now.  Or perhaps canned tuna.  I’m not sure.  “Nachos,” I say, when I’m asked what I’ll have tonight.  I keep it simple because I can’t hear conversations well and I’m not sure the server will hear me either.  It’s OK.  I came for the live music.  For this musician.  

            He’s as talented as sunshine without the faintest cloud of doubt on the horizon.  As proof, the room quickly warms up to him.  He chooses his own songs for a while, blazing away with Pink Floyd, Johnny Cash, Bob Seger, a glimmer of Steve Goodman.  Then he asks what they’ll have. "Lady Gaga," they call out.  Lady Gaga?  Too many peppers in the hot sauce, I think.  He delivers a pretend Gaga song and they laugh.  Children dance like fireflies in front of the stage.  He improvises and sings about a little boy’s graham cracker.  He was a little boy once too.  I know his mother. 

            And people tell me they never expected us to move back here.  Ha.  What were they thinking?