I consider myself a pretty observant person. If you’re wearing a new sweater, or just got your haircut, or re-arranged your living room artwork, I’m likely to notice and comment/compliment. If you’re feeling out of sorts, or having a particularly bad (or good) day, I also tend to pick up on mood clues. I’m not talking about the buzzy “mindful” way of being, which I try and mostly fail at, just the normal everyday taking note of my surroundings, human and otherwise.
Therefore, I’m a little puzzled that in the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed three things in my immediate environment that I’ve never noticed before but were surely there multiple times in the past.
First, I walk by the Goldthwait salt marsh most days and I always look for the great blue heron which feeds there. It’s not always present but when it is, I see it at a distance, typically in the middle of the marsh. It stands as still as a statue, and while it’s too far away to observe clearly, there’s a majesty to it that holds me in place. Only once did I see the heron closer to the marsh’s edge, and when I approached, it quickly moved deeper toward the center. Wow, it was something to see in flight, even close to the ground for that brief a distance. Its wingspan could have been as much as 6 feet, and its color — deceptively gray at first glance — was a gorgeous charcoal blue.
Where does it go when it’s not in the marsh? I never really thought about it but one evening recently I was in my backyard and my eye was drawn upward by a dark movement. It was the great blue heron. Majestic at rest, yes, but in full flight? Arresting. And I stood, arrested, and watched it until it was no longer in sight, grateful I came outside at exactly the time it passed overhead.
It was the movement of the heron which drew my eye but what drew my eye to the tree branches on a windless afternoon? Yes, the recent snowstorm was New-England-of-your-dreams perfect. Fluffy, light, more than a coating, less than a burden, reflecting the after-storm sun like a mirror. Trees covered in fresh snow are pretty. This was something more.
If there was a daytime version of up-lighting a naked tree in winter — putting a spotlight at its base — would it be called downlighting? The bare deciduous tree branches, everywhere I turned, seemed so on a recent afternoon — glowing from what could have been a perfectly applied coat of white paint. Each branch, every crevice where the branches met the trunk, were luminous. I don’t remember seeing winter trees quite like that before, smoothly white along the top, undersides gray, perfect silhouettes against a cerulean blue sky. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Mother Nature was nearby holding a palette and brush, a small smile on her lips as she admired her handiwork.
One final new noticing. The sun rises every day. This we know. The hardier among us make a point of bundling up and greeting it from the shore. Not me. As soon as I sense the dawn, I open my blinds to the growing light, but stay cozy under the covers. One morning last week, my boss, also known as my pup, wanted to go out earlier than usual so I stood up and glanced out the bedroom window. I can’t see the water from where I live but I did a double take as I looked over the distant rooftops of my neighbors. Was that the surface of the sea giving way to the emerging bright orange sun? For a minute I thought so. I stood rooted in place and watched a perfect sun rise as if I were standing on the beach.
It must have been a low lying layer of clouds, giving the illusion of the surface of the ocean, that were present at the exact moment I stood up and looked out the window. I’ve never noticed that before.
I can’t wait to see what I notice next.
Virginia Buckingham is a member of the Marblehead Current’s Board of Directors, the former chief executive officer of the Massachusetts Port Authority, chief of staff to two Massachusetts governors, deputy editorial page editor for the Boston Herald and author of “On My Watch: A Memoir.”
Virginia Buckingham
Virginia Buckingham is a former president of the Marblehead Current board of directors, a frequent commentator on WCVB’s On the Record and author of “On My Watch A Memoir.” She is working on a second memoir, “As This Mountain” in her newly empty nest and writes a biweekly column for the Current.
