Sometimes You Just Say Yes

I love that I live in a place where people know the names of the neighborhood dogs and notice the trees…in fact, they seriously care about the trees. The grandmother oak is always acknowledged, often gently patted. The sycamores and cottonwoods make our hearts sing. And when we planted two oaks that I had started from acorns, their progress was monitored with interest and affection by all who passed. Sadly, one of the saplings, the one that was getting prodigiously tall, died suddenly of unknown causes, and friends expressed their condolences. We hopefully planted a new one, and I was carrying buckets of water to it yesterday, when two of our neighbors came by in a truck.

We chatted about the oaks, and the canyon, about the wind, and work in need of doing. The air was infused with the fragrance of blossoms. A few plump quail scurried by, always in a panic. We were surrounded by blue sky and the grassy hillsides, green and yellow.

“Hey!” said one of our friends. “Do you like pottery?”

Who doesn’t like pottery? I mean, pottery. It’s one of those things that can be both useful and beautiful. Vessels, containers, tactile sculptures, an ancient art, a good, in every sense.

I said yes.

The friend stepped out of the truck, went to the cab, removed three cardboard boxes, and began to pull out mugs and bowls. He lined up a few on the tailgate, and they shimmered in the sun. There were stocky stalwart earthy mugs, shiny bowls in iridescent tones, and my favorites, cups in colors of sea and sky, shaped exactly right for a hand to hold.

“Choose one!” said our friend. “In fact, choose more than one if it speaks to you. Here’s the thing. I like to make them. I just don’t like to sell them. I like to make them and give them away.”

Seriously? It took a moment to overcome my hesitation. I didn’t want to appear greedy or covetous, and after all, it isn’t as if we need anything. But am I not the one who keeps saying that when grace is offered, it is ungracious to decline? And isn’t accepting a gift appreciatively sort of a gift to the giver?

I found my perfect mug. It is layers of sea and sandy ground with a border of beach-glass color at the base, and it fits my hand perfectly. Monte chose a thick, roughhewn mug the color of sand and soil—earthy, sturdy, substantial. We were urged to take bowls, a tiny one for condiments, with a satin kind of finish, and another that is a downright work of art, deep turquoise with a slash of scarlet. There’s something Italian about it; it reminds me of my Vesuvius roots.

There was much delight in all this unanticipated bounty. So much gratitude, beauty, and giddy implausibility.

If I could dance, I would have done a little jig right there in the hard packed mud of Sacate Canyon. It isn’t about the stuff. It’s about the spirit. Sometimes you just stand there in the sunlight with a few friendly humans, embraced by nature, in no immediate danger, and the voices of tragedy briefly recede, and you say, yes.