I caught this sunset on Monday evening. The sky appeared as a painter’s palette, blues, pinks, oranges and purples colliding with urgency. In those few minutes, I paid close attention to the clouds, the disappearing colors and the sky’s quick wardrobe change. Within minutes, the hues disappeared, the certainty of what I experienced seconds before a part of my past.
I am aware of how much I write about the passage of time, my struggle to engage in the present and the melancholy in understanding each second is unlike any other. These thoughts teach me to sink into the word, cherish. I’ve talked about paying attention, in this space and on my Instagram feed. When I run or walk outside, I notice the green-bark on the surface of a tree trunk, the eyes of the sun peering through the leaves and the various aromas in the air — the fumes of a car exhaust, the smell of curry from a backyard or the fleeting scent of lavender lingering near a set of homes. Paying attention though, doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve learned to always cherish these moments. In some ways, I almost take for granted that the desert sky will always present such vibrant hues or my running route will glitter with nature’s gems. I’ve realized it isn’t enough to notice, but to cherish what means the most to you.
The word cherish kept tugging at me this past Sunday on Father’s Day. I woke up with the urge to visit a local donut shop. As a little girl, one of my fondest memories of my father involved a blue Toyota Camry, Sunday mornings and Southern Maid donuts. He said “Let’s go” on these mornings and I didn’t need an explanation; I knew the plan. I suspect the intersection of Father’s Day landing on a Sunday heightened my need to focus on this particular memory.
These are the tricks time plays on me, on all of us. I had no idea this particular memory of my Dad, donuts and Sunday would show its importance 30 years later. What will I see as important five years from now? What memories will surface as the ones I cherish the most? It isn’t necessarily the milestone moments, but the way we spend our ordinary days. The way my daughter says, “Momma,” the countless family dinners where we joke around our dining table or the hours where we cheer each other on through the passions we enjoy, whether it is my writing, my daughter’s tennis practice or my husband’s love of basketball.
Writing this piece compelled me to read and share Mary Oliver’s poem, “Gratitude.” This is exactly it. Paying attention is the first step. Cherishing it, the second. It deepens how I sink into the present.
What did you notice?
The dew snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.
What did you hear?
The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.
What did you admire?
The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the
pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid
beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.
What astonished you?
The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.
What would you like to see again?
My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue, her
recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness, her
sturdy legs, her curled black lip, her snap.
What was most tender?
Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.
What was most wonderful?
The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.
What did you think was happening?
The green breast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve
of the first snow—
so the gods shake us from our sleep.
YES. I often wonder what will last, what will be the things I cherish when they are gone that seem insignificant now. My dad used to take us to get donuts too. Windows down, sun roof open, Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk blaring. It is one of my fondest memories. So simple, but I’ll never forget that feeling.
Really loved this, Rudri. Thanks.
I love that you shared this memory, Alisa. It shows how much our singular experiences are so universal. I saw every detail of what your excursion looked like with your Dad. xo
How timely. Just yesterday I posted that my wish for my 40th birthday is to be more present and cherish the everyday moments of mornings in the park with my two infant sons. Love this Mary Oliver poem!
Oh, yes, Amy, I imagine there is so much to savor with your infant sons in the park. It’s the essence of innocence, freedom and witnessing an everyday joy. Happy (early?) Birthday, my friend. Hope it is filled with all of your favorites. xo
Sometimes as I’m going through something – an event or party or whatever – I wonder if it will be one of the memories that stick forever. Nostalgia is a funny thing for me. It’s not something you think about as it’s happening – how it will one day be marked as something special.
I fear I’m making no sense, but I feel like you a lot!
It makes complete sense. As we grow older, we are aware of so much more – especially if we’ve endured a crisis or tragedy. I think this awareness helps us sink into the present (or at least I hope). xo
Cherish is a lovely word, and an awesome feeling. It’s funny how memory comes back and warms us at just the right moments.
I sometimes wonder if I will remember when I am old the memories I now cherish…and I also ponder if they will be the same ones my children will cherish. Time and memory, oh how their tiptoes across our hearts sometimes turn into tap-dances!
Yes – time and memory – two very complicated subjects. Have you read Sarah Manguso’s Ongoingness? I think you would really enjoy this read, Susan.
What are the moments we remember? It always seems incredible how some things we remember so vividly. My older brother told me on my birthday how he remembers when my parents brought me from the hospital. He was eleven. He said he will never forget how he stood on the terrace with my other brother anxiously waiting to see me. He remembers how small I was. I loved listening to it even though the last few years he tells me the same story 🙂 I am happy that I journal and that I write because so many cherished memories are preserved. Love the post! Xox