I have a thing for skies.
Since my hip surgery, I’ve started a new routine, one that the universe timed perfectly for me. It’s remarkable how that happens; just as I was stricken from the mat, a channel opened up for me and, in the way that a shift of simple routine can do, it is having profound impact in my life.
Most mornings I leave my house before dawn for a morning meditation and yoga class not too far from home. It starts with a short, magical journey through towns along the river and ocean. I drive through darkness, across bridges that sluice the space where water and sky intersect; each day varies by the quality of light being born. Midwinter it’s a silent purple black, stars bright and water brooding. As the days get perceptibly longer, the first hint is of a deep orange pulling up the horizon, splicing the intersection with a brilliant hint of washed light.
That connection of water and sky pulls me. Like lovers of the most dramatic kind, they have varied faces. On some mornings, when the weather is most assertive, the sky is wildly erratic, the water an angry gray green and the two are clearly in combat. On softer days, when the sun won’t show itself and the sky is saturated, there seems to be no distinction between the two; the edge evaporates and it’s impossible to discern where air and water begin and end. On those days I know to expect a gentle bath of rain or snow. And today was my favorite kind- a day coming that was to be clear and calm and beautiful, each distinct in its place in the world, dancing together with great harmony; the ocean deep and crisp, the sky softly awakening, clear and calm.
There’s something very grounding for me in the routine of this, and I start to see the subtle variations in life. Not grand, not dramatic, but little shifts that tell the story, that speak of what is my life. It’s about paying attention.
And I was thinking about that today, as I was in this meditative mindset. I’ve been trained to look at the details; my eye is quickly drawn to the interruptions, the cracks and imperfections; the pulls in the sweater, the paint splotch on the floor. My job has been to detect the 1/2” variation and the out of level counter. It’s a part of what I do in all situations, from finishing a canvas to reviewing a job site. My children have noted with irritation that I see the flaws too easily…and that is very true.
Of late I’m accepting that I must be a very bad designer, because those little imperfections are the moments I love best and where I find the most pleasure-they are human and endearing. Of course, I’m not talking about lack of care, but the things we can't help but make imperfectly; the flaws that make them sing of who we are- of the creator, the maker. It’s the reason we still make things by hand…
And while I can be exacting where need be in my business, I am finding tenderness in my life for those things imperfect, like the sunrise over the ocean on my way to sit in darkness with my eyes closed, knowing that when I open them again it will be full light…
new day.
