As I was waiting at the bus stop this morning, a construction crew was tearing up the sidewalk.
I watched.
A bulldozer lifted one end of the section, two and a half meters of solid concrete, on its end like a lever. One man placed a small chunk of concrete where the slab had been, and the engine dropped it back on top. It snapped cleanly into three smaller pieces.
I watched.
The dust was stirred. It reminded me of my grandfather, building things.
I watched.
He shoveled gravel and cement dust in the old bétonnière, connected to the tractor for power. The mixture inside turned and turned--sloshTHUMP, sloshTHUMP.
I watched.
He kneeled on the floor of the chicken coop, smearing the whitish paste with a flat mortarboard. Countless times, I had seen this gesture. When he tiled the kitchen floor. When he made the bathroom. When he transformed the back room into a bedroom. When he changed the potato room into a cellar. When he tore down the first chicken coop and replaced it with a second living room and yet another bedroom. When he built the pigeon volière I'd been asking for since I learned that birds could fly and decided they'd be happier there than in a small birdcage.
I wasn't allowed to touch, but I watched.
The woman was moving her arms over a dark sidewalk. Her hand held a piece of chalk. A drawing took shape. Before I could see what it was, my father pulled my arm and I had to move on.
I watched.
The men clad in yellow slickers threw dozens, hundreds of fish on the ice. In the early morning light, bids were under way for the night's catch, fresh out of the ocean. My five year old hand held on to my father's.
"Are you here to buy some fish?"
"No, she's just watching."
I watched.
The cook threw a handful of onions in the pan, waved his spatula around in one flowing movement and grabbed spoonfuls of several sauces and spices. He angled the wok down and there was flame all over. In one smooth wave of his hands, the fire had consumed itself and the dish was ready.
I watched.
A line of ants crept along the crack in the stairs. They walked along the stair all the way to the wall, disappearing into a crack. Their nest had obviously been disturbed, and they were in the process of moving out.
"Did you lose something?" Someone stops next to me, looking concerned.
"No, I'm just watching." I receive a strange look in return for my simple reply.
Still I watched.
The Venerable Great-Uncle brought his dog to obedience training. The dogs and their owners went round and round in a circle, exercising various commands.
I watched.
The Venerable Great-Uncle brought his dog to obedience training a second time.
I watched.
"Aren't you bored? I though you came because you felt like you had to, like my grandchildren did."
"No. I came because I like to watch."
I like to watch.
Watching doesn't take much, but watching well takes more concentration than doing nothing.
I am sad when the people I am with move too fast for me to watch. There are so many interesting things to see on the side. When I go to a festival or an exposition or a museum, I prefer to go by myself, although I do miss the company a bit. By myself, though, I can take the time to stop and watch. I can stay as long as I please, watching whatever I find.
Watching is interesting. Drawing a portrait, fishing off a dock, cooking a tart, cleaning a railway station, feeding a hippopotamus, carving leather, writing a letter, playing an instrument.
Everything is interesting. I don't know why more people stop and just watch.
I watched.
A bulldozer lifted one end of the section, two and a half meters of solid concrete, on its end like a lever. One man placed a small chunk of concrete where the slab had been, and the engine dropped it back on top. It snapped cleanly into three smaller pieces.
I watched.
The dust was stirred. It reminded me of my grandfather, building things.
I watched.
He shoveled gravel and cement dust in the old bétonnière, connected to the tractor for power. The mixture inside turned and turned--sloshTHUMP, sloshTHUMP.
I watched.
He kneeled on the floor of the chicken coop, smearing the whitish paste with a flat mortarboard. Countless times, I had seen this gesture. When he tiled the kitchen floor. When he made the bathroom. When he transformed the back room into a bedroom. When he changed the potato room into a cellar. When he tore down the first chicken coop and replaced it with a second living room and yet another bedroom. When he built the pigeon volière I'd been asking for since I learned that birds could fly and decided they'd be happier there than in a small birdcage.
I wasn't allowed to touch, but I watched.
The woman was moving her arms over a dark sidewalk. Her hand held a piece of chalk. A drawing took shape. Before I could see what it was, my father pulled my arm and I had to move on.
I watched.
The men clad in yellow slickers threw dozens, hundreds of fish on the ice. In the early morning light, bids were under way for the night's catch, fresh out of the ocean. My five year old hand held on to my father's.
"Are you here to buy some fish?"
"No, she's just watching."
I watched.
The cook threw a handful of onions in the pan, waved his spatula around in one flowing movement and grabbed spoonfuls of several sauces and spices. He angled the wok down and there was flame all over. In one smooth wave of his hands, the fire had consumed itself and the dish was ready.
I watched.
A line of ants crept along the crack in the stairs. They walked along the stair all the way to the wall, disappearing into a crack. Their nest had obviously been disturbed, and they were in the process of moving out.
"Did you lose something?" Someone stops next to me, looking concerned.
"No, I'm just watching." I receive a strange look in return for my simple reply.
Still I watched.
The Venerable Great-Uncle brought his dog to obedience training. The dogs and their owners went round and round in a circle, exercising various commands.
I watched.
The Venerable Great-Uncle brought his dog to obedience training a second time.
I watched.
"Aren't you bored? I though you came because you felt like you had to, like my grandchildren did."
"No. I came because I like to watch."
I like to watch.
Watching doesn't take much, but watching well takes more concentration than doing nothing.
I am sad when the people I am with move too fast for me to watch. There are so many interesting things to see on the side. When I go to a festival or an exposition or a museum, I prefer to go by myself, although I do miss the company a bit. By myself, though, I can take the time to stop and watch. I can stay as long as I please, watching whatever I find.
Watching is interesting. Drawing a portrait, fishing off a dock, cooking a tart, cleaning a railway station, feeding a hippopotamus, carving leather, writing a letter, playing an instrument.
Everything is interesting. I don't know why more people stop and just watch.
2 comments:
There was an early to mid 20th century writer called Patience Strong who wrote rather glib verses about life but one I recall was worth noting:-
"What is life
If full of care
We have no time
To stand and stare."
May you always find time and inclination to keep watching.
Poignant and meaningful? Yes. Insightful? Yes. But without analysis I just enjoyed the prose and poetry of the words.
My watching used to be selective and, usually, cursory. When I started blogging I realised that there was much more to be achieved by watching. I watch much more now.
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