Momentary muse

“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” —Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Ifought the urge to take a picture of a tree. In full bloom, the tree electrified my senses and I had the good sense to take a moment to notice it.

Strange, the tree grows right in front of my house and lies in full view of my front porch. But, last year, I walked outside and caught it in full spring growth with fingers of red inching toward waving leaves of yellowish-green. My patterned life urged me to pull out my phone and snap a photo, something that I could show my wife or share with friends. I fought that urge.

It’s not that taking photos of beautiful things is bad. How could it be?

It’s not that I was afraid of boring others with what I find interesting, intriguing, or enlightening. Like many, I’ve shared photos to show off what lights my fire, what reflects things interesting to me. Sometimes, I do so to appear smarter than I am or more enlightened that I am to further the wishful parts of my being. Other times, I take the photos and share them simply because I want others to see what I get to see, to appreciate the simple poetic lines of beauty that we interpret throughout daily routines.

Consider the photo an exclamation point. Think of it as a totem.

I fought the urge to take a picture of a tree. Boy, that sentence sounds weird. It doesn’t seem like a momentous act to deny oneself a photo op, does it? Instead of taking the photo, with coffee cup in one hand and graded tests in the other, I took moments to look the tree up and down.

Starting at its highest point and slowly moving downward, I walked my eyes over every branch as the ends wiped the blue sky with waving green leaves. The knotted gray and brown trunk spoke of years of growth, of bicycles leaned against it, dogs making visits, and squirrels running up it. I started to reach for my phone to take the picture but instead I inhaled the tree. I froze my hand and allowed my eyes and mind to wander again and again over branch and leaf.

By not taking a picture of the tree, my mind, my imagination grew as I revisited that spot through the seasons. The romantic notions of change took root. Instead of freezing the tree in time, my mind moved through the undulations of weather and the tree grew, expanded, breathed deeply and wholly.

The great benefit of phone cameras and social media is the ability to share. The great detraction of both is the absence of silent appreciation, introspection, and holding onto something for one’s own deep breath of thanks.

A few years ago, I helped chaperone a group of teenage boys through Europe. With only a few hours in the Louvre, I decided that I would glance at a number of pieces I wanted to see. The Mona Lisa. The Venus de Milo. The Nike of Samothrace. Speed was of the essence due to limited time.

I chastised myself for not lingering longer, but the moments in front of each were inspiring. I breathed in the wisps of paint flicked on canvas. I admired the ghost-white lengths of statuary.

A group of kids interrupted my race to see history’s greatest, with one boy coming through with camera clicking like a sprinkler in his hand. He entered a gallery, took 180 degrees of photos, and then exited. While I understood the need to be brief while on tour, I was appalled that a photo would take the place of the experience.

Type A personalities find it difficult to learn meditation. The constant barrage of color and noise feed into energy and create a dissonance for which we yearn. However, stealing a few minutes of healthy appreciation and taking time to notice—really notice—the simplicity of the good things in life makes the Type A personality a sustainable one.

Momentary meditation is as easy as it is fulfilling.

The tree from last year has changed. It has grown. It has lost a few limbs to the heavy winds that buffet it. It has returned to its color of last spring.

As I leave my porch in the mornings, I step out from under the lazy fan circling above me, past the wicker chairs, off the chipped paint floor, and down the steps. On good days, I look to the tree again. I take a moment and understand that a photo could never capture the essence of the life being lived before me. And I realize in that momentary meditation that which is true about every living thing.

I fought the urge to photograph a tree and, in turn, I learned that documenting an experience and living that experience are two different things. I understood that momentary meditations make life sustainable.

Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org.