Sunday 5 February 2012: We protect what we love.
These two beautiful women are TerriG (with the camera), and her partner Laurie. They called me today in a spontaneous moment and invited me to go with them to a park with a pond, where Musings often goes, in Beaverton, a suburb of Portland. It was (as you can see) a magnificent sunny winter day, shirtsleeves weather. Terri had hoped I could get a decent picture of the two of them with their little dog, Liza, but I wasn't pleased with any that included Liza. (That's Liza's leash in Terri's left hand, as she multitasks--taking pictures and holding the dog.) This one, however, moves my heart--I think because it shows how soft and fragile their human flesh is, how beautiful the human face is, in sunlight, and how deep and easy is their connection as they look in the same direction, not speaking to each other about what they're seeing.
Just before Laurie phoned, I had been looking at a seven-minute TEDTalk with Louie Schwartzberg, the famous time-lapse photographer. He was saying, "Beauty and seduction, I believe, is nature's tool for survival because we will protect what we fall in love with." Schwartzberg talks for three minutes, and then there are four minutes of the most amazing nature videography I've seen.
I am afraid that human beings have not proved Schwartzberg right, or we would have done more to protect our precious blue marble. I do think that if we are conscious, I add that qualifier, we protect what we fall in love with. Seeing two people who love each other reminds me of that truth.
I want to include one more thing today. Having excoriated Ted Kooser yesterday, I want to add one of my favorite of his poems, from Winter Morning Walks. Because no one should be judged by the worst thing they have published.
An early morning fog.
In fair weather, the shy past keeps its distance.
Old loves, old regrets, old humiliations
look on from afar. They stand back under the trees.
No one would think to look for them there.
But in fog they come closer. You can feel them
there by the road as you slowly walk past.
Still as fence posts they wait, dark and reproachful,
each stepping forward in turn.