AT LEAST
by Raymond Carver from Where Water Comes Together With Other Water (Vintage Books)
I want to get up early one more morning,
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world—
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the water as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy—I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what's going to happen.
Chances are very slim that I'll ever be up and at my desk before sunrise. As I wrote yesterday, I may wake up with the sun, but I like that time in bed in the morning before I start my day. However, like Raymond Carver, I would like to be able to wake up one day, make my cup of tea, open the blinds to my bedroom windows, sit at my desk and just wait to see what happens.
It's not that I can't or don't see what happens outside my window during the course of the day now--the machine gun chatter of squirrels waging territorial battle for squatting rights on the backyard fence, the burgundy buds that have started to stain the tips of tree branches, a parade of unknown neighbors marching to and from the bus stop. I can see all these things, and more, if I really pay attention. Too often, though, I just don't. My focus is elsewhere. The world around me is a blur-- broad strokes of color in an impressionist painting that give me a sense of my surroundings but not the details, the particularity.
As I thought about this, the phrase, "The devil is in the details," came to mind so I looked it up. It turns out that the original saying was "God is in the detail," or, if Gustave Flaubert is the author of the phrase as some suggest, "Le bon Dieu est dans le détail." (The good God is in the detail.) When I go through my day without really seeing the details, I miss a glimpse of the holy, the sacred that is manifest in the world around me. Surely I don't have to get out of bed before sunrise to do this-- I simply have to open my eyes and see.
What have you seen today?
before sunrise. Before the birds, even.
I want to throw cold water on my face
and be at my work table
when the sky lightens and smoke
begins to rise from the chimneys
of the other houses.
I want to see the waves break
on this rocky beach, not just hear them
break as I did all night in my sleep.
I want to see again the ships
that pass through the Strait from every
seafaring country in the world—
old, dirty freighters just barely moving along,
and the swift new cargo vessels
painted every color under the sun
that cut the water as they pass.
I want to keep an eye out for them.
And for the little boat that plies
the water between the ships
and the pilot station near the lighthouse.
I want to see them take a man off the ship
and put another up on board.
I want to spend the day watching this happen
and reach my own conclusions.
I hate to seem greedy—I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.
And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what's going to happen.
Chances are very slim that I'll ever be up and at my desk before sunrise. As I wrote yesterday, I may wake up with the sun, but I like that time in bed in the morning before I start my day. However, like Raymond Carver, I would like to be able to wake up one day, make my cup of tea, open the blinds to my bedroom windows, sit at my desk and just wait to see what happens.
It's not that I can't or don't see what happens outside my window during the course of the day now--the machine gun chatter of squirrels waging territorial battle for squatting rights on the backyard fence, the burgundy buds that have started to stain the tips of tree branches, a parade of unknown neighbors marching to and from the bus stop. I can see all these things, and more, if I really pay attention. Too often, though, I just don't. My focus is elsewhere. The world around me is a blur-- broad strokes of color in an impressionist painting that give me a sense of my surroundings but not the details, the particularity.
As I thought about this, the phrase, "The devil is in the details," came to mind so I looked it up. It turns out that the original saying was "God is in the detail," or, if Gustave Flaubert is the author of the phrase as some suggest, "Le bon Dieu est dans le détail." (The good God is in the detail.) When I go through my day without really seeing the details, I miss a glimpse of the holy, the sacred that is manifest in the world around me. Surely I don't have to get out of bed before sunrise to do this-- I simply have to open my eyes and see.
What have you seen today?
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