Last Friday, I traveled with a group of 18 people to the town of Pigeon in the Thumb of Michigan. Our object was to visit the Harvest Wind Farm. We saw the windmills that have been turning since March of this year, and learned from Brion Dawkins, local alternative energy expert, his wife Kathy, principal of Laker Middle School, Peter Sinclair, Midland global warming educator, and Janea Little, naturalist with Midland's Chippewa Nature Center, a great deal about the benefits of harnessing wind energy, and a great deal about the human ingenuity that has brought this choice within our reach. Amidst the wealth of scientific and practical information shared, I felt inspired by seeing the windmills. I wrote the poem below so that I can remember that moment of inspiration -- literally, the intake of breath in response to what I saw.
Harvest Wind Farm: Sufficient
The triune turbine
spins leisurely in the soybean field.
Some meters away, its twin rests still.
Throughout the fertile acreage,
a few others turn
while a mute score stand silently.
By this I see the life that pulses
in the invisible air.
Here, it moves, there it moves not.
What appears monolithic though transparent
in fact contains zones of diversity.
Movement east, movement west, stillness all betweeen.
Where I perceive one, or nothing,
the windmills show me multitudes.
There is more life than I can see directly.
The reflected movement of the air
illuminated by the elegant, pure white blades
quiets me.
This vision is sufficient for today.
Sarah Gorman
Pigeon MI
June 20, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A Perfect Afternoon
Yesterday, Midland, Michigan enjoyed a perfect afternoon. After several days of thunderstorms, fallen tree branches, electrical outages, and other summer weather furies, we were treated to blue skies, mild breezes, sunshine, feathery clouds, and that sweetness in the air that seems to arrive only after storm clouds have passed by.
The people of all ages that I spent time with noticed and commented upon the perfection that surrounded us. Like most things delightful that depend upon transient conditions, the afternoon left me with impressions bittersweet from the awareness that its quality would be fleeting.
Two weeks ago I visited the exuberant spring manifestation of a local backyard garden that has been lovingly cultivated over more than forty years by the same gardener/homeowner. Strolling among rhododendrons and azaleas in fiery, pastel, or dark velvet bloom, I was almost physically pierced, right in the middle of my chest, which I suppose is where my heart center lies, by a two-edged awareness -- the certain brevity of their brave display against the absolute glory of such a peak demonstration of floral splendor.
Is it a question of seeing the glass half-empty or half-full? I don't think so. I'm not cynical, pessimistic or depressed at the thought that the blooms or the perfect afternoon will soon depart. I'm penetrated by the experience of both realities at once -- surrendering as much as I can to the claims of this ideal beauty while at the same time envisioning how dark the world will become again after it is gone.
Do I wish I still had the innocence to see such beauty without any knowledge of its impermanence? Again, I don't think so. It was in many (not all) ways wonderful to be innocent when I was innocent; and the innocence of my young granddaughters is one of the delights of my life (and it is departing far too early). But I love knowledge, too. The knowledge of the turning of the seasons; familiarity with the change that is a constant in the life I am given; knowing how sweet departed pleasures can be; the experience that leads not to cynicism but to a kind of tolerance or patience with life's turnings -- these are riches as much as is the innocence that makes babies so beloved.
I'd like to become an old lady who has regained the innocence of childhood after an intervening period of knowledge. The knowledge of the impermanence of my own life is one that would be softened and sweetened by a return to the state of innocence in which one doesn't think much about time. I'm not there yet. I am still intoxicated by the power of my own intellect and I am enthralled by the brilliant intellects of others. I'm not ready to forego knowledge, or what I believe to be knowledge -- especially the knowledge that I have acquired through suffering, making mistakes, and struggle. It just seems a shame that all that suffering, error, and struggle should have occurred without delivering a product that I can use -- my experience.
One day, after I have acquired a surfeit of experience, I can imagine that I will enjoy innocence again. And this late-in-life innocence I expect to value not because it is just like babyhood; but because I will have disciplined my mind to think about just what I want it to think about. If I choose not to feel the bittersweet thrust of the transient spring blossoms, but instead to live in their beauty as though it were eternal, I can direct my mind that way.
By some measures, my old age is not that far off. I guess I'd better start practicing.
The people of all ages that I spent time with noticed and commented upon the perfection that surrounded us. Like most things delightful that depend upon transient conditions, the afternoon left me with impressions bittersweet from the awareness that its quality would be fleeting.
Two weeks ago I visited the exuberant spring manifestation of a local backyard garden that has been lovingly cultivated over more than forty years by the same gardener/homeowner. Strolling among rhododendrons and azaleas in fiery, pastel, or dark velvet bloom, I was almost physically pierced, right in the middle of my chest, which I suppose is where my heart center lies, by a two-edged awareness -- the certain brevity of their brave display against the absolute glory of such a peak demonstration of floral splendor.
Is it a question of seeing the glass half-empty or half-full? I don't think so. I'm not cynical, pessimistic or depressed at the thought that the blooms or the perfect afternoon will soon depart. I'm penetrated by the experience of both realities at once -- surrendering as much as I can to the claims of this ideal beauty while at the same time envisioning how dark the world will become again after it is gone.
Do I wish I still had the innocence to see such beauty without any knowledge of its impermanence? Again, I don't think so. It was in many (not all) ways wonderful to be innocent when I was innocent; and the innocence of my young granddaughters is one of the delights of my life (and it is departing far too early). But I love knowledge, too. The knowledge of the turning of the seasons; familiarity with the change that is a constant in the life I am given; knowing how sweet departed pleasures can be; the experience that leads not to cynicism but to a kind of tolerance or patience with life's turnings -- these are riches as much as is the innocence that makes babies so beloved.
I'd like to become an old lady who has regained the innocence of childhood after an intervening period of knowledge. The knowledge of the impermanence of my own life is one that would be softened and sweetened by a return to the state of innocence in which one doesn't think much about time. I'm not there yet. I am still intoxicated by the power of my own intellect and I am enthralled by the brilliant intellects of others. I'm not ready to forego knowledge, or what I believe to be knowledge -- especially the knowledge that I have acquired through suffering, making mistakes, and struggle. It just seems a shame that all that suffering, error, and struggle should have occurred without delivering a product that I can use -- my experience.
One day, after I have acquired a surfeit of experience, I can imagine that I will enjoy innocence again. And this late-in-life innocence I expect to value not because it is just like babyhood; but because I will have disciplined my mind to think about just what I want it to think about. If I choose not to feel the bittersweet thrust of the transient spring blossoms, but instead to live in their beauty as though it were eternal, I can direct my mind that way.
By some measures, my old age is not that far off. I guess I'd better start practicing.
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