Pay Attention

10/14/2015

The Lay of the Land

By Lyn Messersmith

Pay Attention

            Writers and artists are busybodies; it’s how we gather stories or find images worth recording for the enjoyment of others. Quiet observation reveals deeper layers of meaning than Facebook (the modern version of a party phone line, where folks put forth what they are willing to have known, or speculation about acquaintances and controversies) so we writers eavesdrop on conversations and watch people, while waiting in line, rather than getting out our phones. When there aren’t people around to watch, we look out the window.

            Taffy cat spent her summer ignoring the taunts of barn swallows. Stepping lightly across the early mornings, she poked around the garden and then perched on a corner post in the yard to observe the meadow. Some days she spent half an hour there, focused on who knows what; moving so little that a visitor might have thought her a ceramic yard decoration.

            I spent part of most early mornings taking Taffy lessons; attempting to focus on what lay in front of me, rather than letting the birds of busyness light in my hair. Once upon a time, that quiet hour would have found me making a to-do list, which by evening became a tool to destroy serenity by noting things that remained undone. There’s something to be said for lists when properly implemented, and there are still days when the only way to quiet the committee in my head is by insisting they abide by Robert’s Rules of Order. But for obsessive people like me, the list is mostly an excuse to outrun my headlights; in other words, a distraction.

            Taffy rule # 1: Brook no distractions. For other rules, see rule # 1.

            For a cat to take her eyes off a prospective meal means going hungry. Well, perhaps not. We try to keep the feeder full, but sometimes we go away for overnight, even days at a time. Still, paying attention is vital to her survival. The eagle pair sweeps over the valley almost daily, and this morning a coyote trotted out of the swamp and crossed within yards of her perch. Last week, the coyotes cleaned out the last of our melons. The remnants of their midnight feast lay a few feet from the deck—gone the next night. And Taffy lives primarily on the deck. She also lives in her skin, so to speak; always cognizant of the moment. Unless it affects her directly, she’s not much concerned with doings of neighbors.

            We are surrounded by voices that urge us to prepare for the possible. “What if? Don’t be caught in a financial crash,” and, “The best time-saving tool ever—order now!” Everything seems predicated on the future, and slowpokes deserve whatever leftovers they can gather up. In addition, we are beset by news of what others are up to; our neighbors, politicians, and world leaders.

            Taffy doesn’t perch on the post much lately. She’s living under the grill cover, with her new family, but pretty soon she’ll bring them out to introduce them to us and a wider world. Early on, she’ll teach them to pay attention, like she’s been teaching me for the past few months. If she had the ability to speak in sentences she’d probably wonder why I make those lists, fret about whether it will rain, or what someone said to me last week.

While the recent lunar eclipse was in progress, family members called, reminding us to watch. As we sat on the deck paying close attention to something that had nothing to do with the efforts of humans, all the clutter and chatter disappeared from my head, and I recalled the saying, “Just stay in your shoes.” Taffy doesn’t wear shoes, but we do. Life goes better when we try to stay in them.