Still Watch

 Before I went to sleep last night, I thought about what I wanted to do today. I don't always think ahead, but I find that it helps me have a bit more purpose and organization if I go to sleep with the next day's opportunities in mind. One of the things on my list was a "still watch". I learned about this quiet activity years ago, and I associate it with native American practices of attunement to the immediate environment. I love the idea of leaving everything behind but myself and sitting somewhere for half an hour with my eyes, ears and mind open to whatever is there. It slows things down. And opens me up. 

Today I went to the top of the hill here at Prairie Hill. There is a grove of walnuts on the south side of the path to the garden, and three hammocks hang in the center of the trees. I chose the most sturdy hammock and eased myself into it. Then I breathed deeply, shooed away thoughts about meetings or plans or conversations, and attended to what surrounded me. I opened up all my senses. And I resisted the temptation to decide I'd seen or heard everything important already.  

The first thing I noticed was the wind. I felt it on my skin, in my hair, blowing across the hammock. It felt good, invigorating. And then I watched how it affected the trees. Many of these walnut trees are still in their youth. They are tall and woody, but above me they were very flexible, leaning and turning in the breeze. It reminded me that though we are used to stable stationery wood in our houses and furniture, while wood is still living it is not rigid. It is alive. And then I noticed other things about the trees. Nearest to me, as I lay comfortably looking up, there were a number of small dead branches, and some dead or dying leaves. However, farther up, the tree trunks were more vital, green and healthy and robust. That was an interesting fact. I also noticed that in the grove there were 30 or more walnut trees, some very close together, and no other species. However, at the edge of the walnuts, other trees began to appear. That too was an interesting fact. I noticed that there was lichen on the underside of the small dead branches, out of the sun. And that there were some large green walnuts clear at the top of the largest tree.

When I attended to the sounds around me, I heard a chorus of some kind of insect. It was loud, yet until I told myself to listen, I had not noticed it. Every once in awhile there were also bird calls. And of course the noise of distant cars on the highway. As for aroma, the air smelled dry and clean. I looked to the ground (which I had to do by twisting my reclining body so that it tilted down), and I immediately noticed insects running around on the cracked ground. Since we are in a drought, there was not a lot of green growth, but there were dry cracked walnut shells from past years. The dry ground made me think about the trees and wonder how they were weathering this long spell of no rain. They have deep deep roots, so I figured it would take more than a temporary dry spell to bother them too much. But still I felt a spark of connection with them, a fellow living creature who needs water just as I do. Water, so important and so often under-appreciated.

I was tempted to move to another place several times, for it seemed that the walnut grove kept diversity out. I thought about how different it would be lying in a meadow, or along a stream, or in a diverse forest. But the point was to take in THIS place, to see what I could learn and notice, to stop my mind from categorizing and wandering and defining. So I stayed for almost 45 minutes. And when I left, what I took with me was a feeling of peace and connection. And that was what I'd wanted! Next time I'll try another sort of place, and if I can be quiet and open, I'll probably come out with the same gift.