MarcoClicks Weekly

Seeing

I stood there, on a gentle wooden bridge over a small, hand-made pond surrounded by the handiwork of autumn trees. The whispers of wind raced overhead, disturbing nothing. It wasn't cold at this distance from the surf-blown water. It was clear and bright at mid-day and the passionate colors fell in almost-circles softly around me. It was deeply quiet.

What came in that moment was a subtle reminder that by letting our eyes focus with less precision, we end up seeing more; that we are changed by what we look at, changed in ways both deep and trivial.

It is useful to remember this about seeing. Such a practice can be uncomfortable but valuable. We define  an on-going, ambiguous relationship to the visible world. We let go of what we expect to see and simply view what appears. Sometimes it's water; sometimes art; sometimes dead leaves.

Blessings

Marco

Quiet fall

The beginning of the end time of our year brings me back to acknowledging life's constant transitions, of the prominence of impermanence, that old, boring refrain. Sometimes, like the child who hides behind the thin tree trunk with his eyes jammed closed and hopes no one can see him, I imagine that if I don't look at change, it won't be there. 

Ah yes. But when I am connected to myself and my deeper world, I know that this is not true - and it's a good thing, too. I notice that what I look at, what consistently comes into view for me and moves me, is the beauty of the transitions, the beauty - perhaps even the majesty - of decay. As I walk in my urban wilderness, it enters my awareness gently, quietly, unassuming, and it stays with me, even as I glance at my aging reflection in the water or the mirror. Without fanfare it reminds me of the opportunity to see this inevitable process as the blessing it truly is.

As we walk through this season of endings, of closing up, and, yes, dying, I remember that the beauty of this time resides in itself, in the truth it holds, not just its implicit promise of spring. So walk, remember, celebrate, cry if you need to, and, I pray, continue to walk more fully into your life.

Blessings,

Marco

Tree of life

The woods near the Pond are about as close as we come to an urban wilderness, surrounded as they are by car horns and runners and laughing children. They all unwittingly partake of the dance of this day. The sun and chill air bring our awareness back to the shifting of seasons, that forever transition that fluctuates in and out of focus. Yet in this moment, it is hard not to imagine the dance continuing just exactly this way forever.

And of course it won't. On this particular day, in this moment of sunlight and shadow, we glimpse a vigorous beech tree, hidden near a roadway close by paths and ponds. We imagine it inhabiting this place, quiet and leggy in those dense woods, muscular even as leaves drop and sap prepares for the inevitable stiffening cold.

We share this world with such wise beings, ones that never speak and rarely move. When we are attentive, we find common ground and comfort in this companionship, and celebrate what our lives share.

Marc

Hidden place

It requires some effort to notice deeply the places that do not call out for superlatives, places that are common and quiet and used to being ignored, walked past. I'm learning that the blessing comes from staying open to what is always around us, looking at what is familiar with sufficiently new eyes to see something deeper.

When I can clear out the baggage of my rigid definition of beauty or composition, I wonder about trees and rocks that have stood unnoticed and virtually undisturbed for longer than I can imagine. Sometimes I imagine this spot is exactly the center of the universe, disguised as some common assemblage of undergrowth. Or I imagine there is an ancient congregation of woodland beasts that comes together exactly right here once every twelve years to sit in the quiet, keeping the earth in its orbit.

These musings make me smile. Yes I know, far more likely, that this is simply a place, one among untold numbers, a place that can hold all awareness or none. It presents an opportunity for us to enter into focused attention, greater presence.

Marc

Tethered

I returned to a familiar place that has gone unvisited for enough time to expect that things have changed. Some things have; others remain the same. This is no surprise although it always does surprise me - that life, growth, decay all move along, continue, in my absence. It ought not to be so hard to grasp, except perhaps as metaphor.

I remember this rusted fence, the one that overlooks the spillway that feeds this muddy river. And I recall this gently weathered rope, captured last time as it held nothing to nothing. I could see the hands that tied the rope and imagined the sequence of events that led to it being left there. It told such a story, at once coarse and nuanced.

But this time there was another element - synthetic and fraying and yet containing what felt like similar histories of imaginings as the jute. There they were, tied together and combining to tether these new moments to my memory of the old and to enrich both through their unintended, graceful presence. It will be a while before the stories become clear. Patience, that is another blessing.

Marco

Subtle intensity

Looking at these blossoms, I feel the ache of intense, almost excessive beauty. I cannot begin to capture it all - the light breeze, the clean, sweet smell, the weakness in my knees. My breathing slows. It comes with some effort, as though I am called, invited to bring it into my consciousness. I stand quiet, look without moving, very still, senses open.

In this moment of external reflection, my eyes float over flowers, leaves, branch, and trunk. They are alive and working harmoniously, yet unaware, as far as I can tell, of its collective and profound impact on me.

Once again, I am captured by the incongruous, unnecessary, inexplicable beauty that is in front of me. I am reminded that this world is filled with such gratuitous blessings. There is nothing to do but appreciate them when we can be conscious enough to remember.

Blessings,

Marco

Possibility and sea grass

Wind made visible, through gentle grass and gull. Mist made tangible through wind. It all hangs together, if faintly. Do I understand even this simple scene? No, not really. So imagine the confusion of facing the complexity of our present electronic life.  There is more and more chatter cluttering our daily comings and goings. On some level it changes the process of discernment, requiring different forms and degrees of attention at different moments.

So. What I know in this moment is that an isolated scene was made vibrant in the haze through the simple interaction of gull and wind, ocean and grass. And, yes, capturing that moment, that simple and isolated moment, brings me a greater possibility of connection to seeing with my deeper eyes, an element of discernment. This is quiet, mind you - not the stuff of epiphany but rather my blessed and endlessly slow re-connection to my heart and my eye. And for that, I remain ever grateful.

Blessings

Marco

Fencing a path in and out

It is obvious, I suppose, that fences are dividers, keeping some on one side, some on the other. One may argue with the esthetics or ethics of a particular way of doing this, but the purpose is clear. It is clear and common, a way we use to guide our understanding, provide context, protect a path.

What appeals to me here is the transparency. Yes, the fence defines and keeps us on a path. But it does not obscure what is not on the path, it does not require us to be blind to what is around us. We are able - might I say encouraged? - to look at where we are going and where we might be headed were we to choose.

I am not clear whether such generosity was necessarily part of the plan. Yet, I will take it for what it is: a reminder that a path requires boundaries, reminders of what it is at the same time as it allows us to notice what it is not. It reminds me, always and not necessarily with comfort, that I have a choice.

Blessings,

Marco

Old and always new

There is a sense of ruin about this place, a sense that goes beyond the dank forest floor to encompass the life of the bedrock upon which it is built. And there is also a whiff of the new, the magic of root, leaf, and tree. It is a mystery, and not just to me, how some scenes can impart such a powerful sense of history and at the same time feel completely new.

Oh, there are old places that I’ve never been so they are new to me: yes, that’s true. But there are also old places that keep reinventing themselves, changing on the strength of spring floods or lightning strikes or other, less physical occurrences. And this newness is what surprises me – how do I see the changes in a scene I’ve never encountered before? And why would it matter?

It matters; it goes to the heart of my seeing, of why I want to see, ever more clearly. It’s a way to surround myself with the curiosity of newness, to cultivate the willingness and ability to see new and old, to distinguish and appreciate both. It is a way for me to focus on the present moment even more attentively. This is new and tender and it feels like it is a way of staying alive, flexible, open to life. Let's see where it leads.

Blessings,

Marco

Clarity and illusion

The things that appear clearly to me are not always those to which I pay attention. Objects that sit just beyond the range of physical clarity often capture my attention with greater urgency. Sometimes this means not seeing what is directly in front of me and that is not always easy or comfortable. Or safe.

And yes, sometimes obscurity is at the root of this seeing, of the way I can make images as enigmatic and twisted as words, designed to confuse as much as enlighten. 

But here is my difficulty - how can I convey the multiple layers of shape and texture and color, intellect and emotion that truly come from places beyond myself without calling on veils and mists? It seems self-evident - this is not so much to obscure as to emphasize the complexity of the commonplace, that is at the heart of this invisible seeing, this on-going exploration into a hidden landscape. I don't always do it with sufficient courage to allow incongruity to become large enough to encompass - and transcend - the familiar. Yet all I can do is the best I can do. And keep on trying.

Blessings,

Marco

Noticing grace

Let me ease into the grace. When it comes, it will enter easily and slowly, without effort or even awareness. And let me stay focused and balanced even in the turbulence that makes its home near me.

Let me remember that disconnections occur without regard to my convenience and that my practice is to notice the fullness, to balance myself, and then to move along.

Yes, I can allow myself to be captured by the grit and grace of this day, and I can learn to rejoice in seeing it clearly, no matter what is contained.

Come, be less serious, laugh more, sway in the wind, even at the risk of taking a tumble. Does it really matter that much? Is the risk really that high? Might it not be refreshing?

Blessings.

Marco

Patience

It inevitably comes as a profound surprise to me when I easily slip into hopefulness. It is as though my trust in the goodness of this life is so shaky that I will believe in the permanence of whatever uncomfortable reality happens to be sitting in front of me.

And yet, in truth it doesn't take much to brighten my world, to shift me out of my guarded stance and allow me to appreciate my suddenly gentle, soft, easy surroundings.  And, of course, I will notice sooner or later that hopefulness slips away just as easily. Is there a pattern?

Yes, and not the first I've noticed it. What I am learning and relearning endlessly is that the name of the game - or at least MY game - is sitting with what's in front of me, knowing that my role is to cultivate patience and equanimity that is distinct from the rightness or wrongness of the feelings or actions that confront me, to hold that in my heart, knowing that I have been here before and will be here again.

Blessings

Marco

Making do

I come to this time - in my life and in the life of the world - with curiosity, a touch of humility, and some hard-earned, if erratic, wisdom. This stance is an odd partner to the crystal-clear dissonance of my momentary but engulfing fear. Together they throb in a disjointed rhythm. They dance, awkwardly, joined without consent.

In my heart, I know that all moments and every moment are ones of transition. And yet I notice that I dwell in that reality only when I am active considering or undertaking profound change. Ah, this is no surprise.

What I know is that I have nothing to do but move along. I pretend to direct this current that is pulling at my body, moving me into the mainstream of my life. After all these years, I am sinking and swimming both, alive to the possibility implicit in failing in new ways. It is what my life, this world's moment, has given me.

Blessings,

Marco

What changes?

I can remember coming here, I can remember walking here often over the years. It is quiet amid the million greens, and I take in the reflection of trees and more. Yes, I know what is hidden just beyond sight, hidden and surrounding this dark and comfortable place.

Are both real? Yes, both are real. I come to this place, this urban primeval sundered from the fast city and welcoming the return of foot-tangling vines and plants native and otherwise. Yes, that's the place. And yet, It is not far from my warm, bright, electrical home to this place.

Walking here, remembering this place that is both far away and so close to my everyday world, I imagine the wild ones walking, crawling, flying, finding this place, recognizing it, making it home, bringing a distinct reality to this spot.

And I wonder at what our people have done. What of it can be undone, what is irreversible, it's impossible for me to know. Yet, at this moment, it doesn't matter, it is all the same: everything changes or nothing changes.  

I walk around this pond, this simple body of city water that hides behind the parkway, behind the more familiar pavement. It is sufficient that it is here, that it was here and it will be here. That's all that is needed.

Blessings,

Marco

Allowing

I'm learning about the irrepressible natural world, about how you can stand there on the wind's beach, facing its ferocity, leaning into it for as long as you can. I'm learning how that wind, no matter the strength of your muscles and your commitment, that wind can simply outlast you.It has no judgment, no sense of overcoming you; it is surprisingly neutral (or, rather, it surprises me, who expects all things to echo my expectations). It is humbling that even in the midst of wind's drama, it is only me who is concerned with the contortions within my little life.

So how do I find myself, keep myself, in all of this? How do I walk into the wind or relax or stand firm or laugh while allowing myself to be both myself and part of that wind? It is a puzzle, sorting out that middle ground, aiming to stay connected to myself even as events and circumstances bite at me in ways I simply cannot understand.

Yet I know - or is it that I hope? - that my virtue is in my stance and in my stumble, that I am not required to do more than I can do and only as well as I can do it. Sitting with that, standing with that, allowing that in the face of life's winds is sufficient.

Sounds like a prayer...

Marco

Coming, going

Perhaps we are always surrounded by mist, without knowing it. Perhaps there is always a subtle distortion that fosters the illusion of clear sight. Those are the sorts of thoughts that can capture me, eat away at my time.

In this moment, there is no time for playing with words, twisting meanings, searching for the indirect and the obscure. There is enough of that in the world already, little reason to push to increase its store.

But however long it may be, the time has come for me to make a stand for celebration beyond inward musing. Oh, I can decide to spend it some other way - indeed, I often do - but what better creation is there? Certainly it feeds me many times over.

So remembering this moment, this cutting wind with just enough moisture to grab and bite, I can invite pleasure - at both the memory and this present moment.

Blessings

Marco

Both, always dancing

There isn't much reason for us to notice. It is, after all, part of the background of our world and it is not likely to go away. Our actions suggest we believe the fence and what lies behind it doesn't offer us that much, doesn't call itself to our attention. Still, while we probably notice in some vague, inattentive way that we pass this place, it barely makes contact with our awareness, we pay no real attention to it.

Ah, yes, it does happen - it does happen that we hardly notice elements of what surrounds us, easily and often. We might as well be gentle with ourselves about it. Even though this is part of our world, we explain, it's hardly an important part, hardly anything that requires us to pay attention.

And I won't say otherwise, how can I? And yet there is something here worth a bit of our attention, some fragment of clear seeing from us. What we might find in this forgotten place is the silent dance between hard and soft, between warm and cold. It is worthy of our consideration, worth spending some of our fractured and unfocused moments to look closely and wonder about. Those dances are always surrounding us and it is our loss when we move so fast that we miss their music.

Blessings

Marco

Still slow

There is nothing about this that is easy. Whenever the day seems to be simple, there is something I am not taking into account. And as though the challenge itself weren't enough, I notice that when I work at understanding or learning or even just sorting out what is going on, it simply adds dark clouds and confusing mist, the threat of rain.

Can I move beyond my obvious discomfort when I am captured by this process, left only with the appearance of control? Can I find a way to retain - or regain - my balance in this moment or the next?

What I know - or, rather, what I hope proves to be the case - is that there is no failing here. There is no thought or feeling or action that I ought to be engaging that I am not. Often, that calms me. And I find myself remembering the little practices - one step, one breath, one moment; that thoughts and feelings are just that and nothing more - all those tools I've been shown to move me along and through.

So I sit, in discomfort and as much as possible without judgment. I sit, waiting, watching for a gentle breeze and soft sunlight.

Blessings

Marco

Slowly

As this miraculous being slowly emerges, as you notice it in the midst of your day, you find yourself holding your breath momentarily in its presence. This vibrant, glowing green speaks of fresh and open possibility as things newly out of the earth can.

And as you live with this companion, coming upon it at stray moments, you begin to accept its presence, letting go of its unique grace and its gentle touch on your routine. It's not that you love it less, simply that it has morphed into a close and familiar piece of your life.

And then comes the decline, when, to the eye of some (and with some surprise), its beauty is renewed, its impact is enhanced, your connection is strengthened. These sober moments can bring insight as well as tears. As you recall that initial miracle, you are transfixed by this slow procession of which you are a part. And you wonder whether your grace will match that which sits in front of you in this very moment.

Blessings,

Marco

Coming to terms

On this bright, chill day, I am attracted to images of age and growing old. Today there's no tinge of sorrow to it, although I confess there sometimes is, perhaps often. But today feels like something akin to the warmth of quiet insight that can come from simply observing reality, just as they say...

You see, I can conjure the debilitation of getting older, I've experienced it already, if gently. Yet, I also notice there is a growth of my skill. So as my eyesight fades, my ability to guess the letters improves. Or i say the word I can find rather than the one I seek. Not the same, perhaps, but good enough for this moment.

My worship can extend to my loose folds of skin, back spasms, wrinkled hands. It can move on to a more internal non-physical vision. How pleased I can become with who I truly am and what is in truly front of me. How pleased to touch and softly hold this moment and then let go.

Blessings

Marco

Indoors

If we look closely, before the momentary blossom blinds us, we can sense that there is much to explore here. Yes, we know there is more to come. There is the bloom that is folded in upon itself, yes, and we know, we expect more.

Oh, this bloom is patient in ways that we do not understand and, sadly, it seems unlikely we will emulate. It paints this moment, our moment, as profoundly sufficient, without our ever-present need for more.

So in this moment, what is here is small, tender, easy for our eyes to miss. Yet if we are attentive, we will notice the texture and the blush of color among the quiet openings of this bloom. It does not require anything of us, simply to see what is in front of us in this moment. That's all and it is enough.

Marco

Cold

This time of year is when we make our own warmth, within our homes and hearts. We watch the water dance into ice while continuing its flow. It seems simultaneously to encompass both solid and liquid. How can I do that? How can I stay fluid and moving and connected while still harboring my old and frozen places?

Part of it, I suspect, is remembering that these two states are really an endless series of in-betweens. We have little reason to expect to live our life at either of these ends - we are more likely to inhabit the regions in the middle.

With that in my heart, I wonder why I berate myself for the frozen places when I might choose to see them as thawing. After all, both states are present and all the ones in between. And I wonder whether I can shift myself so that my practice of gratitude contributes to the melting of these familiar and frozen places. My heart says that as I come to accept the cold, the warmth that I make - my own warmth - grows. It's the same practice, yet again...

Blessings

Marco

Quiet tumult

Without the wild wind, yes I can hear the quiet. It resembles silence, a cousin perhaps, yet it has grown in a different direction. And yet without the wind, why would I observe the ripples on the water? And that's what attracted me to this image in the first place, if not to the moment.

What's here for me, what attracts me, is the difference between the image before us and the reality of that moment, which lives now only as a memory. How do I balance these? I shudder as I remember the emotional frame within which this image began. I can feel how it contrasts so powerfully with the slow and contemplative moment my camera found. Such distinctions!

Oh, the need to rationalize these two - where did that come from? Perhaps it's sufficient to notice this complexity, how the same moment (I suppose it's the same one) can convey such unique feelings, points of view. Perhaps we can use this insight to see a single moment, a single life, through so many lenses. And we can decide that's a blessing.

Marco

Boundaries

The cold has marched ahead, about as far as it is going to go this day. What a mix of salty wind and fierce trees singing with it. Yesterday the gentle ponds that cradle this place were tranquil in the false calm of late December. Now we see those ponds are captured by the cold's advance and no surprise.

We live on a razor's edge distinction between water almost frozen and ice. What is the difference? Nothing and everything - after all, just a single step and you are present at that change of state. That moment, that boundary defines the transition.

In a human life, perhaps the boundaries are more subtle, more vague, redolent of emotion and reeking of thought. So perhaps we are less attuned to seeking out, feeling, understanding those distinctions. Or perhaps they are better experienced, witnessed, without words, simply by looking deeply. One might profit from doing more of that.

Blessings,

Marco