Moments of Grace and Small Gifts

They asked him, "What's your proof?"
And he answered..."My proof is...that I have seen them."

(from Fitzcarraldo)

This morning I saw two golden eagles swoop down from a tree to land in the tall grass of a meadow, and I caught sight of a few others in the distance. They were neither hawks nor turkey vultures, and I was not certain at first what exactly they were, other than being large brown birds of prey with hooked bills who descended with a flapping of their great wings. (An Internet search later that day confirmed their identity as eagles.) I was mad at myself for not having brought my camera along, but not having the camera allowed me to simply look long and remember it well.

Then I continued my drive along Alisal Road beneath the oaks and Spanish moss, knowing I had glimpsed something special.The other night there was a celebration of transitions at the Cliff House. Jack Phreaner got up to speak, leaving his cane at his seat and walking slowly and carefully up to the podium. Co-director of the South Coast Writing Project and a distinguished and well-loved teacher for decades, he talked about the wake a fishing boat leaves in the water and the wake that teachers leave in the lives of their students, and there was something steadying about his presence, even in his frailty.

There is a woman named Paula who visits my mother at the assisted living facility. Paula’s father was a resident there, but he died earlier this year, and there is no reason in the world for Paula to go back to that place. But she does, to look in on my mother. She brings gifts and clothing and takes her out for ice cream and treats her like someone who matters. Sometimes my mother remembers and sometimes she doesn’t, but while Paula is there I know she feels valued. The gift to me is that these visits add support to my belief that millions of unheralded acts of kindness are taking place each day.

Speaking of the assisted living facility, as I was leaving the other day, I heard a cascade of beautiful piano music coming from the large gathering room near the office. I peeked in to see what was going on, and there was no one but the pianist, performing to the empty chairs. I thanked him for the music and we exchanged a few words, and as I left he played something extravagant, something with a flourish, a brisk and melodious send-off… and the tenor of the day was entirely transformed.

Peaches have come. The small ones with white flesh, the ones that smell almost like flowers. They ripen and bruise and brown so quickly that late last night I decided to put them into a pie. I cut them up into jagged messy pieces and added sugar, placed them between crusts, and baked until the crust was brown and the kitchen smelled like peach pie, and oh, it was delicious. My husband even said so.

.A certain poet sent me an email and said, “I’m attaching several new poems, being, possibly, a little presumptuous.” It was like someone showing up at the door unexpectedly with a basket of cherries, or a bakery cake in a pink box tied with string. But no, it was better than that. Good poems from a good heart.

I also got a letter from a childhood friend, the kind in a stamped envelope that arrives in the mailbox. She enclosed a snapshot of her son at his wedding. I remembered playing dolls with her on Coney Island Avenue.

I saw an orange moon rise over the sea.