The Art of Observation

My adventure for today, as recorded mentally from a rather comfortable park bench toward the edge of campus:

I “smelled the trees and the nature,” as our favorite Office nincompoop Dwight Schrute would say.

I heard the constant hum of the busy street several blocks away, and the yells of neighborhood kids brought on by their apparently intense game of basketball.

I heard the laughter and frustrated groans of a couple about my age, trying out the frisbee golf course.

I heard birds sing and cars rev, bare tree branches rustle as winged residents came and went, the breeze stirring up leaves that had been incarcerated under a heavy blanket of snow only a few days ago.

Walking from there to here, I felt freshly thawed earth under my thin-soled shoes.

I saw no fewer than thirteen squirrels, doing whatever it is they do when it feels like spring in the middle of winter.

I counted three bird nests, five examples of modern outdoor sculpture, and four white cars, one of which drove past twice-maybe their GPS gave them some bad advice.

I glimpsed what seemed like a second sun, filtering through a window in the clouds to create a rainless rainbow.

 

I occupied that park bench for a grand total of forty minutes. There was nothing to read and no one to text, but it wasn’t boring at all-because I was making an effort to focus on anything but myself. Just sitting on a park bench, imbuing sunlight, listening to the sound of the world surrounding me.

What happens when I have the day off

 A quick overview of an average day off for me:

1. I sit in a chair all day reading, watching Netflix and alternately munching snacks/feeling unhealthy.
2. I get fed up with sitting around and think about going outside.
3. I realize it’s freakishly cold outside, but then counter that thought with, “Hey, the sun’s still out, so it can’t be that bad!” (I am wrong.)
4. Even my lovely jaunt in the frigid Nebraska air leaves me feeling like a blob. And sometimes, that blobby feeling is all the inspiration I need.

 

Stained-Glass Sky

Today I stayed in.

Alone with my desk chair

and a mug of instant cocoa,

plowing purposefully through a novel

purchased mere days ago.

Pausing every now and again

to observe the time

and acknowledge the sun’s

steady migration toward the base of my window.

 

Eventually the story ended

(alas, so it goes)

and with that

my restlessness returned, so,

thinking to catch the sunset,

I shrugged on my overlong peacoat

and traveled across campus,

a modern Victorian Lady

complete with Converse and jeans.

The journey was arduous

as wind mercilessly exploited weaknesses

in my winter armor

but still,

worth it.

 

Alighting on steps that overlook parking lot

and sorority house

I intercepted my prize,

its last rays peeking through

a net of iron-forged trees

that framed it perfectly,

like a delicate work of lace

against the dying blue sky.

On Travel

 I’ve never been able to sleep in automobiles. No matter how exhausted I am, I can never seem to tune out my surroundings long enough to manage it–and believe me, two weeks on a tour bus with 44 rowdy college choir kids (can you say that five times fast?) can get VERY exhausting. But alas, my wired brain hates me. So during basically the entire trip, as scores of my colleagues slumbered peacefully, I was looking out windows, taking embarrassing pictures of snoring friends, and trying to keep my creative process alive by writing, drawing, anything. Because if you’re gonna be fully awake for roughly fourteen days of bus rides, some good should come out of the torture.

I wrote the following poem as we cruised westward through the (highly interesting) Nebraska plains. Between the mental exhaustion, the bumpy road and the nosy friend I had sitting next to me, it was kind of an ordeal, but here it is. My first poem of 2016.

 

Drifter

Outside this humming capsule

of reclining seats

and recycled air

the world unfurls in our wake,

pavement skimming its way back to the place

we left in such a hurry.

Beyond barnacle-encrusted windows

the land crawls

and folds over itself,

a vista of gray on brown.

A fresh dusting of snow

drifts, caught between

hills that roll like shallow waves.

Though stationary,

the scene grants them a hint,

a glimmer of life

as the sun’s rays hang

refracted, reflected,

suspended in the air like a million tiny flecks of salt spray

and these once-frozen mounds of earth

become wind-stirred eddies

passing through a drifter’s nets.