Today I am featuring J.P. Weiss’s The Saturday Letter on watching an old man.
I lived with my grandparents for several years prior to first grade. As I read Weiss’s newsletter, I was taken back to the after-dinner Ohio summer nights when my grandparents, Jennie and Will, would sit in the dark in their screened-in porch and “rock.” And I would sit tucked into the corner of the sofa along the back wall.
Upon reflection it was really a nightly meditation where they would comment softly as people walked by and the sun slowly settled on the day. I never joined the soft murmurings. Instead I would fixate on Jennie as she rocked and pleated the edge of her handkerchief over and over and over and over again – a ritual of sorts that prepared my little mind and body for bed.
~Love, Vicki
The Art of Observational Living
On stillness, suffering, and the wisdom of seeing The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”—W. B. Yeats
I saw an old man in the park the other day, sitting alone on a bench. He looked down at his hands as if they carried the weight of remembered things. The call of the past can be strong, especially in old age, when the present feels unsettled and unfamiliar.
After a time, he lifted his gaze to the park. Children chased a ball across the grass. Dogs bounded about. Lovers lay close together in the late light. Parents gathered near the parking lot.
The sun was sinking. Long shadows stretched out from the trees. When my dog and I passed, the man gave me a small nod. Then the light shifted, and he seemed to fade into the darkening air.
I thought of my grandmother, Mary, who used to sit quietly on benches while I played. She often watched me when my mother was busy. I can still see her, placid and unhurried, twiddling her thumbs as though life itself was enough.
She had no need to fill silence. She listened. She noticed. At gatherings she seemed to take in more than anyone else, and when asked later, she would offer some sharp little truth that others had missed. My father, himself observant, would nod and say, Yes, Mary, that is exactly right.
Her apartment smelled of tea and soda bread. By her chair lay books of Yeats and photographs of the old country.
She would read poems aloud and tell me what she had seen in town that day. A woman crying in her car. A duck walking near the Catholic church. Mrs. Blum’s new dress. Always with kindness in her voice. My father, long after her death, would say she was a saint.
I think now she was a noticer. Someone at peace with stillness.
NEWS BREAK!
If you were a reader of TalkingGrief.com and then TalkingBittersweet.com, we welcome you to continue as we take a slight turn, while keeping you and your experience a priority.
The new, renamed blog, Between Brushstroke and The Times (BB&TT), will explore the common thread between responding to art and responding to the world around us. For every canvas and every headline 1) speaks beyond the obvious, and ultimately asks: What am I left with?
Thank you for slowing down, tuning in, and taking the time to sit with what’s unfolding. We’re glad you’re here. Look for next week’s blog to have a new home at vickipanagotacosart.com.