Who would think a parking lot would set a stage for beauty?
The other day, as I was walking across this particular lot, I noticed small chips of something rolling along the ground, pushed from behind by the wind. At first I thought they were pieces of styrofoam (what else could be so sturdy but lightweight?) which was depressing – more litter – but as I approached my car, I kept watching. I pretty soon realized they weren’t human-made after all. They were flower petals, blown over to the parking lot from the trees blooming across the street.
I nearly climbed into my car and drove away. But then I stopped, and kept watching.
The petals were shaped like little discs, and when the wind blew – it was a gusty day – it would lift them up and set them rolling. They would roll in phalanxes, each little petal racing the others across the lot, brilliantly lit by the morning sun. They reminded me of kids let loose on a field – some would get ahead, then drop back, and others would surge. Then the wind would slow, the gust would cease, and the petals would all, instantly drop flat on the ground, motionless. Another gust would arrive, and they would all as one lift up on edge, light up with sunshine, and start rolling again.
Sometimes they blew north, toward me; sometimes they would veer east, into the row of cars on the other side of the lane. It was early, so the lot was mostly empty – another aspect of that encounter that reminded me it was a gift of a moment. Most of the time, the lot would have been too full for the petals to cut such wide swaths across the smooth pavement.
Those being pre-smartphone days for me, I wished for a way to record the scene. I thought, “Someone should be filming this.” But no one was. Perhaps no one ever will film tree blossom petals rolling in mad dashes across a parking lot. But there I was, and I had stopped. I felt relieved that someone was witnessing that fantastic spectacle.
A morning or two later, as I was tracing my usual route through a nearby park, I topped a set of stairs and saw a woman a few yards beyond me, stopped still in the middle of the path. She was staring into the grove of young trees that line its edge and where the redbud trees were in bloom, spraying purple across the new green. When I walk, I often see people standing still while talking on phones, or sitting still while reading or eating, but rarely pausing just to drink in the moment. Again, I felt relief. Those trees deserved the attention.
Not too long ago, I heard an artist described as “one of those few people who notice the small beauties of life,” or something along those lines. It surprised me, because I tend to think that most people notice those small beauties, to greater and lesser degrees. But either way: that is what happens, I think, when we make art, or when we pause to take in someone else’s creative response to the world. We stop to notice. We will ourselves to see with wonder. Most of the time we turn our heads and get back to business, but other times, we stop.
Maybe we’re trying to stop time – to hold on to a fantastic sight or color or effect of light. Maybe we hope to capture a moment so we can share it with others. Maybe we seek to experience it as deeply as possible. Or maybe we just want to sing its praise before it ends.
