(art by Paco Yao)
How do we approach the threshold of our days?
There’s a Swedish word that I love called Gökotta, which means “waking up early in the morning in order to go outside and hear the first birds sing.” Weather permitting, I do this every morning before work. I get ready, get dressed, make myself some coffee and go sit outside in the dark of early morn and listen to the birdsong. Most often it is Robins, who are the birds to sing first and last each day. It’s become a kind of sacred ritual for me that helps to me to be rooted in wonder. To do nothing more than sit and listen to their warbles and their twittering. Sometimes I hear the hoots of the barred owls.
When I go back inside, I sit down and read a poem aloud. This is also become a vital part of my morning ritual. Reading poetry is a necessity, because doing so helps me attune myself to being present, to not see a separation between me and the world around me. It is another way to continue embracing wonder, to allow for the expectation of it. It’s become a kind of holy expectation. Wonder is such a small word yet it contains everything. To wonder is to enter into the mystery, into the eternal “Why?” Wonder draws me out of myself and draws me into respect and reverence for creation.
My drive to work is in silence. No music. No NPR. Just silence, which is something I won’t get for the next eight hours, teaching five and six year olds. Silence is a way to center myself.
At work, I work the car line, helping students get out of their parents cars as they are dropping them off for school. Many balk at having to work outside, especially if it’s cold or rainy, but I have found that even the thirty minutes that I’m out there, I am not focusing on the negatives. I watch the sunrise. I listen to birdsong. I have seen a red-tailed hawk sitting atop the flagpole, or great blue herons flying overhead. Children often greet me with hugs and big smiles.
Often these mornings remind me of the words of Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu, “Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”
Contentment is something that can often be hard to come by in the wreckage of this world. It’s a culture that promotes discontentment, especially about ourselves: how we look, what we wear, what we drive… It’s a culture that promotes consumption as a way to improve our lives. It makes us feel like less so that we will buy more. Even social media fuels insecurity. We look at photos of others and question, “Why isn’t my life’s exotic and fulfilling” as the influencers we follow. We begin to think, “If only my life was…” and we long for our lives to be different.
We spend so much of our time trying to prove to ourselves, to others that we fail to truly become ourselves, accept ourselves, love ourselves.
By beginning my day in birdsong, poetry, and silence, I find contentment.
Often I will stop throughout my day to take photos of clouds, the sky, trees, flowers, butterflies.
“Why do you do that?” my Father frequently asks me when he sees me do this.
“To remind me of the beauty that is all about me, that the world is still wonderful,” I reply. Even before his dementia, my Father never understood my doing this. He has always been an unhappy man chasing happiness in experiences and marriages. Now, at the end of his life, his dementia has only worsened his unhappiness and discontentment. When he complained of being bored in his apartment while I’m at work, I suggested I could get him some bird feeders and he could watch the birds on his small patio. “Why would I ever want to do that? You would have to be out of your mind to do that,” he said, to which I informed him, “Your youngest grandson and I do. All the time.” My Father makes me think of Pearl S Buck’s words, “Many people lose the small joys in the hope for the big happiness.”
Recently I ran into someone I went to high school with. He, apparently, is very successful. When he asked me what I did for a living, I replied that I taught kindergarten. He laughed, “And we all thought you were going to be famous. So much for ‘Most Talented’,” he referenced my Senior Superlative. There would have been a time when this would have really upset me. I would have believed that I hadn’t lived up to my potential. But not now.
By the world’s standards, I’m not a success. I work in a lower income school with kids that many in the world overlook. Yet we were talking about heroes in class this week. Most talked about their favorite superheroes. When asked who his hero was, one little boy, who is quiet, replied, “Mr. Blackwell. I want to be like him when I grow up.” Yes, my job does not pay well nor does it tend to get appreciated, but it matters when I can, in any small way, impact a child’s life.
Too often people tell me, “Why are you doing that? You are so smart, you should be….” and then offer their suggestions. Like the guy I ran into from high school, who scoffed, “And everyone thought you’d do great things.” But what are great things? And who gets to define them for us?
I also wonder if the guy I went to high school with has ever known the joy of spotting three red-tailed hawks while on the playground and then pointing them out to excited kindergartners. The absolute delight of that moment. Sometimes delight is the most serious and vital thing.
Did he know the majesty and depth of an ordinary moment fully lived?
Sometimes, I end the school day by asking the kids in my class: What did you see today that was beautiful?
Or: What was something that made you happy today?
Does he know the joy of newly sharpened pencils or a freshly opened box of crayons?
Or sitting behind one’s desk and looking out the window at a tree in bloom and full of birdsong?
When I come home in the afternoon, I stroll through my backyard to see what new flowers had bloomed. Snowdrops. Grape Hyacinths. A single purple Iris. These all felt like gifts. That’s how I try to approach my day: as a gift. No matter what happens. This is far from easy, some days, and I don’t always succeed. Yet no mater what difficulties there are, there are always still beauty that surprises me. Like sitting on a bench in my garden, still and appreciative, when a Monarch Butterfly landed on my hand. It felt like a miracle no less than the appearance of an angel.
The Austrian poet Ingeborg Bachmann wrote, “It takes so long to learn to take your place in your own life.” I am beginning to more fully understand and live this out, to fully appreciate the quiet life I lead.
How about you?
Where do you find contentment in your daily life?
Or, as I ask my students: What did you see today that was beautiful? What was something that made you happy today?
I really enjoyed this one, Elliott. I'm so sorry your father can't (couldn't) cultivate this same appreciation. I think you're creating a wonderful legacy for your kids and your students.
Today as Jonathan and I were out for a walk at a conservation area, a cardinal stopped beside the path, almost as if checking to see if the coast was clear; then he darted across. Seeing a cardinal always makes me happy.
I saw some baby purple irises poking up out of someone's garden as I walked today. How amazing that year after year, life that has been huddling inside the earth all winter bursts forth anew.