“Everything that is not written down disappears except for certain imperishable moments, people and scenes.” — James Salter, “The Art of Fiction No. 133,” The Paris Review
On the bed where I sit cross-legged, leaning against the headboard: eyeglasses, a couple of paperbacks, a new but already much loved hardcover novel, half-read, its pages folded over, the margins scattered with lightly penciled exclamations, each one a silent, emphatic yes. Two pens, gray and black, a notebook with a dark brown cover and magnetic clasp. A pile of down pillows pushed aside, the familiar quilt, softened by age and use, sun-faded. The folded comforter.
Beyond the tall triptych of windows, the view that is the backdrop of all my days and nights. Sloping fields still patched with snow, the stone walls that define our edges here, meandering tendrils of wood smoke curling skyward, the final exhalations of a slow-burning brush pile. The maple tree that’s almost close enough to touch, its dark limbs silhouetted against a twilight sky: rose, transparent blue, violet and gold. The fading palette of an April dusk. Tiny, tight-fisted buds where just yesterday there were none.
A platoon of robins that descends as if summoned to the yard. They work away at the newly bared patches of earth, eyes cocked like surveyors taking measure of the land. The mushy, receding snow. The flat, matted grass. A lone yellow crocus still clenched shut, withholding its bloom. The distant mountains drenched for one singular instant in the day’s last light, already slipping into shadow as the sky drains of color. The ticking clock on the bedside table. The quiet way evening settles in.
One son on his way tonight to New York City — hopeful, off to answer a call, a long-shot opportunity to take one small step closer to his Broadway dream. The odds aren’t good. He knows that but goes anyway. This is what it is be twenty-three and wishing for something, anything, to happen — you say yes and figure out the details later. The brief heart-tug when he left an hour ago, fresh shaven, clothes shoved into a pack, one eye on the clock, car keys jangling in his hand. Imagining him tomorrow morning at ten, climbing the stairs of some building in Times Square, giving his name at the door, slipping into a much-coveted seat at a pre-Broadway workshop where, just maybe, he can convince somebody he’d be a useful guy to have around.
From the kitchen below, the muffled sound of a Celtics game on TV. The rise and fall of my younger son’s voice and his dad’s responses, their staccato, companionable conversation punctuated by alternating cheers and cries of despair. The pleasurable stillness of the house in the hour after dinner when the dishes are done. The slow, unwinding hours before bed. The sense of embrace.
All week, I’ve been thinking about the line quoted above, Salter’s idea that “everything that is not written down disappears, except for certain imperishable moments.” By imperishable, I assume he means the big ones – the birth of a child, a phone call bringing good tidings or bad news, a vow spoken, a declaration of love, of betrayal. We don’t need to preserve those moments that instantly engrave themselves upon our hearts; for better and for worse they become part of who we are, our own unwritten enduring history.
But everyday life — the life we fumble through and take for granted and get distracted by – this ordinary life is comprised of little else but perishable moments, random strings of details, most of them barely worthy of our notice: the slant of sun across the breakfast table, the coffee steaming in the mug, the brush of a hand across a brow, the dog’s head in your lap, a son’s casual, quick embrace, a handful of stars flung across a vast night sky, few notes worked out on the piano. The flotsam and jetsam that add up to days lived, days forgotten.
It takes a kind of determined willingness to pay attention, an eye deliberately refreshed and attuned to nuance. And it takes time, time I rarely spare of late, to pause long enough to truly see. To sit in silence and slowly, haltingly, put what is fleeting and ephemeral into words. The inescapable truth of the present moment: it’s already gone by the time I manage to set it down upon a page.
And yet, I do believe there’s something to be said for trying. Something to be said for inhabiting stillness and then looking out at everything as if for the first time. For me, it is always the same lesson, one I learn by lingering in one place for a while and softening my gaze. Making myself at home in the moment means allowing time and space for each thing to become wholly itself, distinct and beautiful in its own way, each bearing its own secret revelation.
What I’m noticing as I sit in bed this evening and take stock of the fading, golden light, the muffled sounds of home, the unimportant particulars of here and now, is this: the simple act of recalibrating my attention calls me back into relationship with my life.
Perhaps a day will come when I will be grateful even for this humble record, this snapshot of an unremarkable time. I still believe with all my heart in the gift of an ordinary day. But I also have to remind myself, again and again, to accept that gift for what it is: proof that every moment offers another quiet opportunity to be amazed.
So, why not try this? Close your eyes. Draw a deep breath in and then exhale a long, deep breath out. Step gently through the opening, into now. Allow your eyes to open quietly, as if you are drawing back, a curtain. See whatever is at hand. This is where you are. Before the moment sheds its skin and assumes a new shape, weave a skein of words around it. Take a picture. Say “thank you” out loud and feel the texture of those words on your tongue. See how the very act of noticing is something akin to wonder.
Katrina,
Again, you did it! Perfet timing. This morning I drove by the same old farmhouse, barn, and other sadly falling apart, yet wonderfully beautiful in their own way wooden structures… with the rolling fields next to them. I have driven by every school day for more than three years and I keep planning to stop to take photos. Stop to somehow ‘preserve’ this beauty that is still here for us to see, enjoy and wonder about. Today, I drove past, and saw it. A bulldozer parked down the road. My breath caught in my throat! I knew it couldn’t be… but I quickly drove home, got my camera, and returned. What a gift – not only were the machines NOT for this land. I also had the amazing privelege of meeting the man who grew up here. The man I had written a letter to – a few months earlier, asking if it would be ok to take some photographs of his ‘memories’.
What a glorious moment to meet him, shaking his hand, as he and I both ‘held on’ as we shook and met and talked….and I listened to him as he told me it was ‘many moons ago..’ when he grew up in that old house.
Now I know, after reading your post, to not only photograph this experience – but also – I must write about every second of it. Now.
Who knows, I may even paint one of those faded, grey structures and write a whole book combining it all — even if only for my family and for this special man I met today!
Thank you again, Katrina Kenison. Thank you for sharing and for writing to us, and for us. 🙂 – Ann
Taking notice and being mindful of where you are, being in the moment… I try to do that now, everyday. Yesterday I was at the funeral of my great aunt. She died
at age 98. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, all 25 of them in attendance plus other family members. What an amazing woman, what an amazing life she led. Always grateful for the simple and small things, like the ritual of dessert. A reason to linger longer and
share life’s sweet treasures.
I was just preparing a talk for next weekend about how photography helps me do exactly this: slow down, get close to a moment, live it, snap it up. Beautifully written, Katrina.
Oh, wow. Katrina, I think you know how obsessed I am with trying to capture the “flotsam and jetsam” of ordinary life, of trying to capture those tiny details that float through my fingers even as I grasp. I love this. xox
Beautifully said, as always, Katrina. Ordinary moments are happening all the time–I am doing my best to pay attention to them, and record them in some form, but there’s no way to truly capture them all. I think of them like fireflies–marvel and appreciate the glow while it’s here; then let them go…Photographs are one way to preserve the moment, to make it last. But sometimes a camera gets in the way–just need to be present.
Best of luck to your son in New York!
Before I opened my computer to check on the day’s events, I lay on my bed, eyes closed, and just listened….I heard the most lovely sounds…mostly of birds chirping in the tree across the street….an occasional car driving by and the very faint sound of an airplane in the far off distance. The moment was perfect….
My new favorite post of yours. This is so breathtaking! And I am very grateful for it as the theme of this week’s yoga class is “moving into stillness” and I have been looking for the perfect thing to read at the end. And now I have it.
This is perhaps one of the most beautiful lines I have read in a long time:
Making myself at home in the moment means allowing time and space for each thing to become wholly itself, distinct and beautiful in its own way, each bearing its own secret revelation.
pretty please come to Chicago for a book talk, Katrina! I would so love to meet you!
Beautiful as always, Katrina! I find it much easier to stop a moment and enjoy the present moment when I am alone. This is school morning two for my three kids after spring break last week and I find myself once again more capable of slowing down, if even for a few extra minutes. Why is it so difficult when three little ones are demanding your attention? If we could only figure that out:)
I love your blog and the fact that it always brings me joy even if through tears to know that I have had many, many beautiful ordinary days. My son ( 26 ) left home for New York on April 1st in search of his life, too. Does your son need a roommate? : )
Katrina, you must have some kind of spooky radar or something because I have been crazy, cranky, rotten person for 2 weeks. All due to first world problems that somehow mean so much and are worth so little. I needed these words today. Thank you.
Love this, thank you
You know, not a single day goes by that I don’t need this reminder. Your books and your blog have been such a gift, as I raise two young daughters, in teaching me to make space for recognizing the fleeting, ordinary moments and stages. Now, every so often, I force myself to write a bit about the inconsequential details of this day – or, sometimes, to take a series of snapshots on Instagram over the course of a single day and cobble them together so I can remember what we ate, did, wore, read. Thank you for the inspiration.
The Universe led me to your page. I’ve been trying hard over the last few months to be in the moment. Tonight – although I had a million things to do, I sat down with my son on our deck, and enjoyed the first warm evening of spring. It was delightful and the memory will carry me through tomorrow’s hectic day. Thank you for the reminder written so eloquently.
Your elegant, beautiful words fill my soul with happiness and grace. Everyday I am trying very hard to ‘live in the moment, love my life and love me too’. You remind me that life is a gift- the rain falling upon April’s bounty of tulips and cherry blossoms, the cool air blowing across my hands as I type, the sound of tumbling clothes in the dryer downstairs. Sights, smells and sounds of my life- right this very moment. Thank-you Katrina for reminding me to appreciate these ‘ordinary yet extraordinary’ moments. Brenda
So, here I am “now,” meeting the now of your experience, and of your words, which was indeed written down, making the meeting of our “nows” possible in a time stretching now. Perhaps every eternal moment is imperishable, and it’s only our “normal” consciousness which experiences time at all… and yet without that consciousness we cannot connect in any mutually recognized and coherent human context. And the funny thing is that we are saying the same thing, to the same “SELF,” and I think I know what you mean, and that I hope, perhaps “know” that you know what I “mean,” or at least what I intend. Salter’s words struck me as well, and so I hope to be in the imperishable moment as much as possible… even when writing. ‘Nuf said, at least for now, but for All Best 🙂