Peaceful silence is hard to come by in almost any city.
It seems I'm always surrounded by a relentless volley of movement and sound, almost no matter where I am. With scores of students and my husband's large family, and, I suppose, in this culture in general, loud chatter is the norm. At home, between my window and the mountains, there is a busy avenue and a busier highway ripping their way through the valley. Trucks and motorcycles and ice cream vendors with squeaky horns pass by countless times each hour, carrying the cares of the day with them. Thoughts race similarly though my mind all day long. There are always unfinished tasks to be done, requiring time and attention that I almost always unquestioningly give.
Some parents seek out much-needed quiet alone time early in the morning or late at night. Other people manage to have free weekends to escape to the mountains or the sea. I've often found my own refreshing moments observing nature at intervals during the day. Each of the different places I've lived has had its own charming way of catching my attention and whispering peace in the quieter spaces.
I've already written about the Saint Mary's River where I studied in Southern Maryland, so I won't repeat myself here. Even so, water is a source of spiritual and personal renewal across many lands and cultures. I've been mesmerized by waves in many places--from ripples in a muddy Maryland puddle to the teal band of the Adriatic sea crossing the sheer, dark mountains in Montenegro.
Waves have graced my days off and greeted me on commutes. On even the coldest, windiest days in the dead of winter in Boston, I would sometimes find myself taking a long detour to the train station, passing by the harbor. Just hearing the waves rhythmically beat hollow echoes against the docked boats brought a sense of stability in an unpredictable world. And whenever I'm near a beach, I can hardly resist the call to come near the foam that stretches into mirrors on the shore, my bare feet flirting with the waves on sugar sand. The rhythm of the tide starts to sync itself with my breath, and I let myself get lost in a meditative mixture of earth and sky.
As I write, wind chimes, aligned with dense silver clouds are warning me that a storm may soon pass over the valley. Storms, as we know, often approach with a solemn silence before them. I remember not only the other-worldly silence, but the moist smell of New England air before a big snowstorm. Though it made me shiver as the air raced through my nostrils, it wasn't as cold as on most winter days. And the sky, not too unlike the one I see today in Saint Joseph of the Fields, was a heavy covering of clouds enveloping the city with a mystical spell, quiet, solemn, and rife with anticipation.
I've observed awe-inspiring silence after storms, as well. I remember one terrific thunderstorm here in São José in particular, which, in the dark of night, brought down many trees in a wet rage. After heaven and earth had faced off and battled it out, and after the clouds had said all they wanted to say, they left the valley. In their wake, behind broken trees with branches strewn in puddles blocking every path, was also a stingingly bright blue sky and just a hint of a sweet floral smell that, with uneasiness, yet certainty, promised peace for that day.
The wind has many moods, and can be quite lighthearted when it chooses to. Spending childhood summers at our mémère's house in Rhode Island, my siblings and I would fight over who got to sleep on the sofa. It was right by an open window, which was often visited by a cat or two. Lifting us out of the sticky heat of cots and cushions, the sofa brought us just a bit closer to gentle summer breezes ruffling the darkened leaves that reached out to the inky indigo sky. The breezes cooled us down, their constant calling, along with the crickets, lulling us to sleep, while whispering of the excitement that tomorrow might bring.
Summer breezes here in the South are usually either a short-lived relief to much more oppressive heat, or a signal of a coming storm. However, I recently felt just a hint of that nostalgic playfulness in the air while visiting our sister-in-law in the coastal city Serra, near Vitória, Espírito Santo. There, it was much stronger than the New England summer breezes I remember, even those on the shore. And yet something about the incessant wind rolling off the ocean, traveling from faraway places right up to the open window, stirred up a similar childlike awe of the mysterious dark night and anticipation of the coming day.
I love it when a feeling or flavor from my home country appears in a new way here in Brazil. Sometimes, however, rather than a parallel metaphor, it's reflected as an opposite extreme.
Even though I hated the bitter, bleak New England winter and the months of darkness that it brought, I often found eerily delightful moments as the sun began to sink behind bare trees at 4pm. Sunsets in December and January, though they are still too early for me to fathom or welcome, even after 11 years in Massachusetts, paint the sky with subtle hues unlike the even the most triumphant summer sunset. A pale pink or chrome orange mixes with an ice blue, and the sun quietly disappears between barren branches without ceremony or fanfare, singing a silent, esoteric hymn that often slips by unnoticed. This magic often caught me at the end of my workday, and when I stopped to take it in, it brought a few brief moments of peace and inspiration before the shroud of darkest night passed over the city.
Perhaps a similar touch of magic here in São José would be the coolness of morning as the sun is rising, pink in the sky, behind dark blue clouds. In a few hours, the sun will be a blazing eye whose glare is unbearable and inescapable. But in these few moments, for those who are awake to enjoy them, sweet songs slip through the cool air, carried by birds and soft breezes.
As Christmas approaches, I've been making some Advent-inspired art, following prompts from a photo challenge called #unwrapchristmas. Many of the prompts make me think of meditative moments that I've spent in special places, which inspire landscape paintings or collages. Whatever your beliefs or celebrations, and whatever city or season you find yourself in, I invite you to pause and reflect on the beauty in the pockets of nature that surround you, and share some of your favorites.
It seems I'm always surrounded by a relentless volley of movement and sound, almost no matter where I am. With scores of students and my husband's large family, and, I suppose, in this culture in general, loud chatter is the norm. At home, between my window and the mountains, there is a busy avenue and a busier highway ripping their way through the valley. Trucks and motorcycles and ice cream vendors with squeaky horns pass by countless times each hour, carrying the cares of the day with them. Thoughts race similarly though my mind all day long. There are always unfinished tasks to be done, requiring time and attention that I almost always unquestioningly give.
Some parents seek out much-needed quiet alone time early in the morning or late at night. Other people manage to have free weekends to escape to the mountains or the sea. I've often found my own refreshing moments observing nature at intervals during the day. Each of the different places I've lived has had its own charming way of catching my attention and whispering peace in the quieter spaces.
I've already written about the Saint Mary's River where I studied in Southern Maryland, so I won't repeat myself here. Even so, water is a source of spiritual and personal renewal across many lands and cultures. I've been mesmerized by waves in many places--from ripples in a muddy Maryland puddle to the teal band of the Adriatic sea crossing the sheer, dark mountains in Montenegro.
Waves have graced my days off and greeted me on commutes. On even the coldest, windiest days in the dead of winter in Boston, I would sometimes find myself taking a long detour to the train station, passing by the harbor. Just hearing the waves rhythmically beat hollow echoes against the docked boats brought a sense of stability in an unpredictable world. And whenever I'm near a beach, I can hardly resist the call to come near the foam that stretches into mirrors on the shore, my bare feet flirting with the waves on sugar sand. The rhythm of the tide starts to sync itself with my breath, and I let myself get lost in a meditative mixture of earth and sky.
As I write, wind chimes, aligned with dense silver clouds are warning me that a storm may soon pass over the valley. Storms, as we know, often approach with a solemn silence before them. I remember not only the other-worldly silence, but the moist smell of New England air before a big snowstorm. Though it made me shiver as the air raced through my nostrils, it wasn't as cold as on most winter days. And the sky, not too unlike the one I see today in Saint Joseph of the Fields, was a heavy covering of clouds enveloping the city with a mystical spell, quiet, solemn, and rife with anticipation.
I've observed awe-inspiring silence after storms, as well. I remember one terrific thunderstorm here in São José in particular, which, in the dark of night, brought down many trees in a wet rage. After heaven and earth had faced off and battled it out, and after the clouds had said all they wanted to say, they left the valley. In their wake, behind broken trees with branches strewn in puddles blocking every path, was also a stingingly bright blue sky and just a hint of a sweet floral smell that, with uneasiness, yet certainty, promised peace for that day.
The wind has many moods, and can be quite lighthearted when it chooses to. Spending childhood summers at our mémère's house in Rhode Island, my siblings and I would fight over who got to sleep on the sofa. It was right by an open window, which was often visited by a cat or two. Lifting us out of the sticky heat of cots and cushions, the sofa brought us just a bit closer to gentle summer breezes ruffling the darkened leaves that reached out to the inky indigo sky. The breezes cooled us down, their constant calling, along with the crickets, lulling us to sleep, while whispering of the excitement that tomorrow might bring.
Summer breezes here in the South are usually either a short-lived relief to much more oppressive heat, or a signal of a coming storm. However, I recently felt just a hint of that nostalgic playfulness in the air while visiting our sister-in-law in the coastal city Serra, near Vitória, Espírito Santo. There, it was much stronger than the New England summer breezes I remember, even those on the shore. And yet something about the incessant wind rolling off the ocean, traveling from faraway places right up to the open window, stirred up a similar childlike awe of the mysterious dark night and anticipation of the coming day.
I love it when a feeling or flavor from my home country appears in a new way here in Brazil. Sometimes, however, rather than a parallel metaphor, it's reflected as an opposite extreme.
Even though I hated the bitter, bleak New England winter and the months of darkness that it brought, I often found eerily delightful moments as the sun began to sink behind bare trees at 4pm. Sunsets in December and January, though they are still too early for me to fathom or welcome, even after 11 years in Massachusetts, paint the sky with subtle hues unlike the even the most triumphant summer sunset. A pale pink or chrome orange mixes with an ice blue, and the sun quietly disappears between barren branches without ceremony or fanfare, singing a silent, esoteric hymn that often slips by unnoticed. This magic often caught me at the end of my workday, and when I stopped to take it in, it brought a few brief moments of peace and inspiration before the shroud of darkest night passed over the city.
Perhaps a similar touch of magic here in São José would be the coolness of morning as the sun is rising, pink in the sky, behind dark blue clouds. In a few hours, the sun will be a blazing eye whose glare is unbearable and inescapable. But in these few moments, for those who are awake to enjoy them, sweet songs slip through the cool air, carried by birds and soft breezes.
As Christmas approaches, I've been making some Advent-inspired art, following prompts from a photo challenge called #unwrapchristmas. Many of the prompts make me think of meditative moments that I've spent in special places, which inspire landscape paintings or collages. Whatever your beliefs or celebrations, and whatever city or season you find yourself in, I invite you to pause and reflect on the beauty in the pockets of nature that surround you, and share some of your favorites.
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