As I sit here looking at the two blue porcelain birds quietly sitting next to our black mesh-wire candle holder, holding a vanilla candle, I stop to contemplate the moment, the time in between going from one lesson plan idea to the next. It was the smell of vanilla that stopped me in my mental tracks. If you don’t have a large vanilla candle or one in your own favorite scent, I might suggest purchasing one.
Mine sits on the ledge between our dining nook and our living room. And it’s literally a dining nook; dining room is much too generous, but it’s good enough. It’s a space to eat that out’s of the traffic of the comings and goings of a seven-year-old boy, who is often running from outside to in and then back again, trailing grass and tiny bits of dirt with him. Does the book, No David ring a bell to anyone? If not, it’s cool. And if so, then you can see the visual of David tromping through his house.
Anyhoo, the candle. That’s where I was. The wafting smell of a candle is what lifted me out of the focused bubble that seems to encase me when I am on the computer. After the scent arrived, I looked up to see the two birds and thought how lovely this moment is. I am always more stressed when I am teaching, and having my son Asher home for the summer adds more tension. But there are still moments of stillness that arrive where I can freeze time.
Suddenly, I can hear the lazy cars drifting by our bay window to my right. I can hear the birds chirping as they fly from one fir tree to the next. I can hear my son and his neighborhood friends screaming in the excitement of four-square, bickering over who’s out and who’s not. I can hear the sound of my husband turning off the mower and joining in the boy’s playful squabble.
All of these things are always here to take in and enjoy, no matter what else is happening. Even when I am worried about money and bills. Even when I am unsure how to stuff a semester’s worth of learning into an eight-week summer term. Even when…all the other stuff seems looming out there: the dishes, the laundry, my own personal hygiene for Christ’s sake. I haven’t even taken a shower, and it’s nearly 2:00 p.m.
In the background, beyond the candle and birds, Anne Lamott’s book Bird by Bird sits on the faux fireplace mantle in our living room, another reference to taking things slow. A scene that seems too staged to be an accident, and yet it is.
In her book, Ms. Lamott reminds us to take things “bird by bird,” or one small step at a time, a message that arrived to me by way of a scented vanilla candle this afternoon. And suddenly, the space between two porcelain birds arrives, the one that’s been waiting for me to notice, calling me to stop, to be still, to take in what I have accomplished. To inhale.