Stop

Many months ago, now, I was walking by the canal near my condo when I thought I saw an otter.  He quickly slipped back under the water and the only way I was able to follow him (because I was getting a picture no matter what) was to follow the air bubbles and then wait for him to come up to breathe.

I have found in taking pictures at Hope that while I still pay attention visually to everything that is going on, to the long filaments of a spider web and the unwanted pine needles caught in its trap, to the way the sunlight backlights flowers and leaves, I also have to pay attention to other things, in particular, sound.

I can now discern the chirping of a squirrel versus the chirping of a bird and, in fact, the only way I'm able to locate birds among all the branches and leaves and vines is to listen.

I have to stop and listen.

I was thinking this morning how much my life seems like an old fashioned telegram with periods replaced by "stop."

Get up Stop Eat breakfast Stop Go grocery shopping Stop.

My stops are out of necessity.  I'm too exhausted to run together a stream of activities.

But planned stops are important too.  If I did not stop in the morning as I walked the grounds of Hope, the singing of the birds would be mere background, much like the whirring of the machines at the tire place that sits just on the other side of the trees from Hope.  If I did not stop, I would not be able to pick out the individual chatter and follow it to its owner.

If I did not stop, the world would be nothing more than an impressionist's dream.