My Place of Attention
“Home - the place of attention.
Where you know that swirl in the road
Marks the dust bath of a jack rabbit.”
Last Thursday, I flew ‘home’ to where we had lived for thirty-four years before moving to the island. I was returning to celebrate my husband’s retirement and birthday with family, colleagues, and friends.
As the float plane prepared for landing on the Fraser River, I looked down at the dikes we had walked along with babes in a double stroller. My husband picked me up, and we drove to the apartment his company rents for out-of-town staff.
One of his clients took us out for dinner that night to a restaurant we have frequented for over thirty years. The owner greeted us warmly, happy to see us. I ordered the Might Fraser, a small tenderloin smothered with crab and béarnaise sauce. It had always been my father’s favourite dish and lived up to my memories.
In the morning, I headed into the village for coffee. The barista asked me if I wanted my regular oat latte. Later that day, enjoying a Fat Tug in the local pub with my friend June, two servers stopped by the table to say hello, surprised to see me, knowing we had moved.
Now, you would think this might make me feel homesick. Nope, not at all. I will miss the people but the sense of home I used to feel here has slipped away. On Sunday night, as we fell, exhausted into bed, I turned to my husband and said, I am so looking forward to going home!
This afternoon, arriving at the ferry terminal just as our local ferry pulled into its berth, I breathed deeply and felt a sense of contentment. I was heading home.
I encountered only a handful of cars as I drove through the tunnel to our home. The tunnel is a seven-kilometre stretch of road covered by a canopy of cedars and Douglas Firs. The speed limit is 60, but I usually drive slower as often, deer graze on the side of the road or suddenly leap out of the trees. The sunshine shimmering through the trees on a curve can be blinding, and I would rather have an impatient driver riding my ass than hit a cyclist. There are no houses along the main stretch of road, only a network of trails. During wind storms, trees often block the road. In the fall, pumpkins carved with creepy faces pop up along the route. I pay close attention to potential hazards and the beauty of this road that takes me home.
The field across from us was filled with sheep today as I turned on my signal light. There was even a lamb among the flock. A late summer surprise pregnancy, I wondered. I pulled into our leaf-filled driveway and noticed the weeds sprouting through the gravel. The grass was dry and brittle from lack of rain, but the leaves on our plum trees were deep green and golden fruit peeked out between the branches. I found a copy of The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal in the mailbox. I browsed the pages of this anthology from poet and editor James Crews once I unpacked, stopping to read some of the poems that offer reminders of life’s small delights.
In one of his reflective pauses, James Crews shares that the poem Attention by Lucy Griffith reminds him of the wonder he feels at the signs that he is home - the ruts of his washed-out gravel driveway, patches of blackberries ripening, the black-eyed Susans he planted years ago finally blooming. So often, he writes, we look past such small things, perhaps not thinking our daily lives are worthy of awe.
At the end of his reflective pause, Crews asks, What images and sights let you know you are home?
As I read his words, I realized that as I pulled into our driveway, I was smiling, happy to see the weeds, the dry grass, and cedar waxwings by the pond. When I unlocked the front door, Milo looked down at me from the top stair, offering a quiet meow. Boogs jumped off the couch and took time for a lazy stretch before coming to greet me. I opened the windows and sliding door to let fresh air into the house and stopped to listen to the piercing call of the kingfisher as it patrolled the back of our property.
My husband arrived home, having stopped at the store for groceries. He joined me on the back deck, and enfolding me in his arms. We stood there in silence as the leaves rustled in the trees, and Milo scratched at the screen, wanting out. The late afternoon sun reappeared from behind a cloud. This, our first official day of retirement. We are so happy to be home.
Attention
Home— the place of attention.
Where you know that swirl in the road
marks the dust bath of a jackrabbit.
Or that a particular Canyon Wren ends
her descending aria with a startling yee-haw.
That on our longest of days,
the sun retires on the breast
of the northwest horizon
and begins a steady southern swing
to the little knoll where we mark its winter twin.
Our lives held in this gentle cup,
palmed within an arc of light.
- Lucy Griffith