“Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world.” – T’ien Yi Leng
I woke up this morning with new energy and resolve – hoping to shake up the routines I’ve clung to these past few months and invite some fresh air into my life!
Right now, I’m waiting for the warm sun to envelope the space I’ve carved out on our balcony with my faded blue camp chair and old wooden table. The chair is facing the glittering water of English Bay, instead of tea nearby, a crystal glass sits on the table filled with sparkling water, a small change in the works already. After a walk through the busy park, the peaceful feeling unfolding nine floors up underneath a perfect blue sky steadies my heart. There is still some cleaning to attend to on our balcony but so far, I’ve been able to savour a morning tea in a patch of found sunlight and have begun writing on the odd afternoon.
There is a resident city robin who sings every morning and evening – during a recent morning its cheerful notes were overshadowed by rumbling thunder as I drowsed underneath our woolen blanket. It sang through three waves of thunder and I wondered if it was teaching the young robins to sing no matter what. Rain fell, too and coloured our world grey as it used to do years ago before fire season became the new normal after warmer springs. Perhaps the stillness we’ve all come to embrace has recalibrated natures’ rhythms, restoring a balance we feared was lost forever.
Our part of the world is now disturbing that very hush as businesses, schools and restaurants are being encouraged to wake up. Nearly empty streets are filled once more with roaring sports cars on their way to the beach and downtown. The playgrounds host laughing children as we wait patiently for the park concessions to open imagining those first oil spotted boxes of freshly cooked fish and chips. Some little things are worth waiting for…
We cannot wait it seems and did the next best thing – toting homemade potatoe salad and picking up some take-out from the Stanley Park Pavilion to bring to our still undiscovered picnic table. While we ate our delicious fare, we could hear raven young calling to each other, safe in the lush canopy above just behind the shuttered and fenced Railway Cafe concession – their haunting calls reminiscent of a more ancient time than this.
Every little thing is everything during this unprecedented time – the feathered visitors who join me as I do yoga in my tiny studio (by moving the coffee table towards the balcony door and putting down my yoga mat), foraging for lichen covered twigs and branches to create botanical bouquets for summer (inviting the forest inside) and the relaxing hour reading before sleep takes over. Small things and moments easing the new normal that overshadows what once was…
I’d love to hear about your own little things that are “everything”!