Yesterday was Tree Watering Day here. The 20 Doug Fir seedling trees I put in the ground earlier this spring were looking a bit parched, so I took a metal watering can in hand and made many slow, intentional trips from water faucet to the spot where the trees are planted.
“Intention” is a word a friend of mine uses (for instance, she'll often speak about "living intentionally," or purchasing--or not purchasing--this or that, "with intention.") I’ve decided it’s a good word because it suggests that some kind of thought has gone into what we are choosing to do during our hours and days.
Watering the trees is a job I could probably do more efficiently by stringing a hose out to the trees, maybe putting out some kind of drip irrigation set-up. But I like the back-and-forth walking; and it’s pleasant to watch the water sprinkling from the can onto the baby trees. It’s my intention that this job be done slowly, and mindfully.
The yard behind our house has become a young forest in the 12 years we’ve lived at our place. One day last week I got out a seldom-used, early-generation digital camera. Because the camera is old and quirky in the way it sees light, I can put dark red filters on the lens and get infrared-look pictures. I played around doing images of the trees, and of a “scare-cat” that hangs from a beam above our back deck--the marble-eyed intimidator placed there (in theory, at least) to keep birds from pilfering produce from our garden.
Inside the house, I noticed nice light illuminating empty glass milk bottles sitting on the floor near our kitchen table. Sometimes it seems like there are photographic possibilities everywhere, at every turn. It’s my hope--my intention--not to miss the magic.
