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Ephemera Around Town
This morning I saw a pretty feather on the sidewalk while I was walking to work past the Senate office buildings.
I squatted to take a close up photo, but a breeze sent it flying before I could snap the shutter. I went after it, replaced it in a sunny patch for best light, and then tried again.
While I was still low to the ground with my camera phone out, a police officer on a bicycle came up to me and said that it was a pretty feather; I could have it if I wanted.
I said I would leave it there for someone else to enjoy. Taking and sharing the photo on my yoga blog would be enough. We agreed that it looked like a robin may have encountered a hawk.
The officer smiled and continued down the sidewalk on bicycle patrol. I resumed my walk to work.
I wondered whether the interaction would have been so pleasant if I hadn’t been a decently dressed (i.e, evidently middle class), small, middle-aged, white woman.
“Sometimes I have nothing to say”
Several years ago, when I still had a working art studio in my house, the favorite thing to do of a friend’s child when the family came over was to go into the studio to see what I was painting. I had just finished a piece on which I had painted the words, “Sometimes I have nothing to say.” D was five or six at the time — just learning to read full sentences. He chortled delightedly, pointed to the painting, and exclaimed, “I get it! I get it!”
As I have been studying and contemplating yoga philosophy in a group setting recently, I have been thinking about the tension between saying and not saying, the conundrum of yearning to communicate the indescribable, and the countervailing desire just to experience and not to try and describe or communicate.





