Once in a while, a sharp reminder that my point of view might not be completely valid prods me to explore a different angle from which to regard life. This morning, some vague, irrestible urge for clarity drew me from the house as the sun rose above the Delta.
With my camera on the seat, I pulled into a turn-out on Brannan Island Road just west of the park in which I live. To my right the sun burst through lingering rain clouds. On the western horizon, wispy vapors drifted past the moon.
With my lens fully extended, I gasped to behold the contours of the owl’s nest in the towering birch at the end of our meadow. I could see the mother as she greeted the dawn surrounded by a silent gathering of crows. Out my other window, the old crane kept its eternal vigil over the glimmering stillness of the river.
I shot until my battery died. This evening, I scrolled through a hundred frames, from moon to sun and back. I thought about a friend whose feelings I carelessly bruised last evening. I see his perspective quite clearly now. I long for his forgiveness, for his certain decision that I still deserve to dwell in this place of enduring beauty. I know that he would tender this pronouncement if I asked it of him. That knowledge will suffice to comfort me.
It’s the eleventh day of the seventy-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.