I did a video workout last week, part of my ongoing efforts to keep all my joints bending the right way, and it ended with a short meditation.
After instructing participants to find a comfortable seated position, the trainer told us to envision ourselves in a beautiful meadow, feeling the sun and the breeze, hearing the sounds of nature around us, seeing the wildflowers.
And I could. I could even smell the aroma of tall grass, hear the buzz of insects around the Queen Anne’s lace, the bee balm and the fleabane, see the flutter of butterfly wings.
I know that meadow; it was part of the Girl Scout camp I went to day camp in as a child, and worked at as a teen.
When I was a child, I often felt mightily annoyed to be in that meadow. It was one of the only parts of the camp that wasn’t shady, and part of it was mowed to make room for archery and games. So when I was there, it was often hot, and I was sweaty and thirsty and being — let’s say encouraged — to participate in activities for which I had no natural aptitude.
And yes, I still remember the metallic taste of lukewarm water out of a canteen, in the years before plastic water bottles became ubiquitous.
To be fair, when I envisioned that meadow as an adult, I imagined sitting at the upper edge, along a ridge under the eaves of the trees, in the shade, with the sunny expanse of grass and wildflowers dropping away before me. I could see the things that intruded on the pastoral scene: the glint of sun off cars on the road, a quarter-mile or so away, the hum of the electric lines, the Girl Scout council office and its parking lot and the one cabin on the property that had the luxury of flush toilets.
But in between was the grass, and the wildflowers, and the insects, and the sun, and the air that did not smell of exhaust.
The experience of being in that meadow, being hot and itchy and sweaty, with dirt in my socks and on my face, frustrated that I could not hit the bull’s eye but I could try again, all of that was a gift.
It was a gift to be someplace different from my comfortable home, someplace different even from the air conditioned library that I loved. It was a gift to see and learn about the natural world, to come to feel comfortable with the buzzing and fluttering things and with the patience it takes to do nothing but watch the clouds scud through the sky, even to introduce younger children to the same environment, encouraging them to keep trying, keep walking, by singing silly songs.
Our whole lifetimes are gifts, but so many of them aren’t recognized as gifts at the time. I’m not really talking about the stages everyone sees as big and meaningful; the sleep deprivation when my children were infants was awful, but I knew then that I would always look back with joy on their first days.
It’s the mundane things: the weeding the garden and walking the dog, the packing school bags and checking homework, the folding laundry and making dinner. So many things are gifts, if only we take the time to see it.