We Are Here, Still

Watching my neighborhood wake up is my favorite new meditation.  I’m usually up when it’s still dark. Cal is off swimming, so it’s just Chloe and me.  She sinks immediately into her stuporous post-breakfast nap, snuggling up to me on the couch. I look out my front windows to the south, into my Edgewood Park neighborhood.  I put on some meditative music, or sometimes just sit in the silence, drinking in the darkness.  Often, a lone bird sings, and I think of another favorite, that Tagore poem: Hope is the bird that feels the light, and sings when the dawn is dark and still. 

 In time, his buddies join him, creating a chorus of birdsong.  Other sounds rise.  Early traffic.  The whistle of a distant train. The footfalls of joggers and dog walkers and others who like getting out at dawn.  Some have fancy gear for night walking: flashlights and headlamps and jazzy colored LEDs that festoon their jackets and vests and dog collars and leashes.  Good for pedestrian safety. And fun fashion, too.

As the sounds rise, so does the light.  In the east, a faint stain appears and spreads--black to grey to pink to orange—washing the sky behind the redwoods.  Shapes emerge—the houses, the trees, the street.  Blandford Boulevard is waking up. Eventually, the human patterns emerge.  Construction workers arrive in trucks at the numerous projects up and down the street.  The sounds of power tools fire up, but not before 8 AM—the rules on this are clear.

Watching the morning routine at my neighbor’s house is another new favorite of mine.  They have young children and a big dog, and their morning launch is nostalgic and hilarious.  By 7:15, the doggie day care van arrives to empower another day of canine enrichment. By 7:30, the human launch has to happen.  Sometimes Mom, sometimes Dad, takes on this task --- kids, lunches, backpacks --- all have to be assembled and in the car.  It usually involves at least three trips back into the house to collect some forgotten something.

One morning, I watch with delight as big brother tries to help little brother get into the car.  The problem is little brother’s backpack, which is too big to clear the opening to the back seat.  To solve the problem, helpful big brother chooses this strategy: keep shoving, harder and harder.  The backpack keeps obstructing entry, and little brother keeps bouncing back out of the car.  Undaunted, they try again.  And again.  And again.

It is such a typical little boy thing, I laugh out loud.  If something doesn’t work, just keep pushing.  Harder and harder.  Dad notices the problem, and wearily, patiently—like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders -- gets out of the driver’s side, puts his coffee mug on the roof of the car, and walks around to the other side.  He takes off little brother’s backpack, helps both boys climb in, then hands the backpack in to them. He returns to the driver’s side, retrieves his coffee, and off they drive. Another school day launch achieved. 

Little boy energy, circa 1997

When we moved into our house, we were the young family, surrounded mostly by older couples who had already raised their kids.  In the house across the street lived our good friends the Garehimes.  Jodi, who remains a dear friend, used to love looking out her window, watching our morning ritual.  The little boy energy of our household was palpable to her.  Now, the Garehimes are gone, retired to the mountains.  The roles are reversed.  I am one-half of an older couple, sipping coffee and watching out my window as my young neighbors live the life that I lived --- that I loved --- not so long ago.  The little kid energy still radiates across our street, just now in the opposite direction. 

846 Blandford has seen a lot of things over the past 34 years.  It has sheltered us—not just our family, but others in our lives who have needed its roof and walls for safety and comfort. 

We have remade it into our own image, both house and yard, spending money and a ton of sweat equity. It has seen laughter, family gatherings, pool parties, new puppies, birthdays and holidays and fundraisers, countless dinners, two weddings, decisions big and small. It has brought together the people who populated our lives at any given time—from

school, church, work.   It has seen unimaginable loss; one so grievous we thought we’d have to abandon this place because the pain suffered here was so great. And yet, we are here, still.

I get melancholy sometimes, thinking about days past and losses sustained. Each morning I meditate. I record the best thing that happened to me yesterday, a gratitude journal of sorts.  I set my intentions --- asking how I will use this day, in this place, to its highest, best purpose.  I watch the light rise, and the world wake up. 

We write new chapters. We fill new roles. We rail against the gods. We count our blessings.

And we are here, still.