Garden shears in hand, I leaned into the bush to ingest the rich fragrance of a cascading lilac.  I was determined—finally—to gather a liberal bouquet of these lush blossoms possessed of the darkest purple hue of any lilacs I had ever known.  The bush, a sparsely clad leaning tower of some twenty-five feet, was on the north side of the house, hence, the leaning.  Poor planning on my part now would required some rather immediate attention—adding to the list, the ever growing inventory of items that more or less necessitated my immediate attention—because the base of the bush was heaving our propane tank, threatening before long to topple it. 

          But now was not the time.  I was determined that now was not the time.  I was fixated on seizing the time to gather a bouquet of the darkest purple lilacs, a quest that had passed in and out of my thoughts frequently over the past month, anticipating their singular splendor.  This quest, as it were, served as one of manifold symbols of the arrival of spring, and I generally allowed my thinking to graze generously among the symbols of spring’s arrival long before I would actually experience them.  No small frustration accompanied this grazing because liberally interspersed among the anxiously awaited acts—quests—and symbols of spring were acts, responsibilities, chores, routines, which interfered with the delight such symbols could deliver.  The gathering of this bouquet did not follow unencumbered.  Just beforehand, I had surrendered time to digging up the lid to our septic tank, which was in immediate need of purging.

          As I carried the bouquet into the house, a small but vivid white object caught my eye.  It was a spider, and with little hesitation—because I had brought it into the house—I quickly scooped it up in a tissue and tossed the tiny body into the trash can, assuming I had killed it in the process.  After the bouquet was carefully arranged in a vase and placed on the kitchen table, however, I noticed that the spider had lifted itself from the garbage and now perched itself on the top edge of the oak bin that I had built to contain the trash and recycling.  I watched it intently. It did not move. 

This time I was observing this creature in the same manner I might have had I encountered it in the garden.  My curiosity mode had kicked in before I allowed the falling sand in the hourglass to intrude on me.  Its white bulbous abdomen had a pair of muted red centered markings.  Its legs, each several times longer than the body, were angular and very uniform.  Because I was not wearing my glasses, the cephalothorax or “head” was too small to discern any particular features.  I was now seeing the aesthetic beauty that I had elected to ignore on our first encounter.  I was appreciating its place, especially its aesthetic place, within the realm of nature that I professed to love, the nature and beauty that earlier I had tried to destroy. 

A different set of patterned behaviors had now taken hold of me, directing me to lift this engaging creature gently from its roost and carefully deposit it on the sedum by the stoop just outside our front door.  At first it clung to the tissue; so I carefully prodded it with my forefinger.  It presented a vivid and stainless contrast to the vibrant green of the sculpted sedum leaves.  I watched the spider for a few moments, but it did not move.  Other responsibilities soon pulled me away from my inquisitiveness, but the spider remained in my thoughts.

Every spring for probably the past ten years at the high school where I teach, I have conducted the verbal skills review sessions for juniors planning to take the SATs.  On one of the practice tests I use, there is a brief excerpt from an essay identified only by a date of publication, 1991, serving as a reading comprehension passage.   The passage begins,  “We have been taught to believe that our lives are better than the lives of those who came before us.  The ideology of modern economics suggests that material progress has yielded enhanced satisfaction and well-being.”  Citing data about the work habits of the Kapauku of Papua, !Kung Bushmen, natives of the Sandwich Islands and Australian aborigines, the author indicates that, contrary to popular belief, these “primitive peoples” typically work less than half the hours of the average American.  The writer concludes that these people “are materially poor by contemporary standards, but in at least one dimension—time—we have to count them richer.”

It was not until later—actually not until I began working on this piece—that the irony of this situation occurred to me.  I had finished the last review session not too long ago; so the passage must have been near the edge of my consciousness.  As I worked on this essay, the passage and its relevance came to mind, and the irony came with it.  The hours expended preparing for and conducting the review sessions—always provided in the spring—were among those taken away from the time I could spend appreciating spring's wonderment. 

But if I face reality—face the truth about myself—I much confront the fact that there is another, more pervasive, source to my ostensible dissatisfaction.  I have too little time for any of the diversions I find particularly engaging.  But that’s not it: Too many diversions—and the word is all too apt—divert (if, dear reader, you will indulge me, please) me from all the other diversions in my life.    This is inextricably fused with my compulsion to “over-involve” myself once I choose to commit to something.  I am not a perfectionist.  I know when and where to capitulate to monstrous time and, increasingly, to my body’s clock telling me I must rest or even sleep.  I do drive myself—while driving my wife to distraction—because I have a need to be recognized, and I appreciate that recognition most when it acknowledges some aesthetic accomplishment.  When I direct a musical, I want someone to acknowledge the set or blocking as creative, aesthetically stimulating.  When I do a drawing or painting, I anxiously and hopefully anticipate someone’s appreciative comment about its execution or composition.  When I take a friend or family member on a “tour” of my gardens, I search for body language that announces that she is as excited about the beauty that I helped to arrange (of course, I did not create it).

So why am I complaining?  I protest because I wish to eradicate whatever impulse in me that led me to try to kill that spider.  I am fully aware that had I not considered the spider to be beautiful, I would be forced to center my essay around some other incident. Clearly, the issue for me has more to do with aesthetics and time than it does with preserving God’s creatures.  The impulse to kill the spider definitely had something to do with time, time that was usurping from me an opportunity to appreciate the pulchritude (my own assessment, here) that was God’s special creation.  I know that not everyone would appreciate the beauty of that spider, and something in me quietly relishes that difference, that individuality.  But I relish even more the diversity of my interests.  No, more than that, I must pronounce—quietly—that I am quite proud that I have so many interests that I do not have time to indulge them all to the extent I would wish.  The true resentment arises from those responsibilities intruding which usurp time from appreciating, enhancing, or creating that which I consider beautiful.

I doubt, however, that there is any chance of reconciliation.  Take the SAT review class, for instance.  I find words to be beautiful too, yes, words, not just the creative interplay that defines the craft and genius of great writers, but also the creation of the words themselves.  I fascinate over a word like ‘arachnophilia’ because some creative soul found a unique way to capture a whole concept within a single word.  The word, I must say, flows intriguingly over the ears.  Often students look at me blankly when I go on like this, and who could blame them.  But there are those who already do appreciate, before my intrusion into their lives, or who learn to appreciate what I value in the study of semantics.  And that is another kind of beauty that I relish.  I probably teach because I am forever seeking out those students or seeking within the unlikely “students” that beautiful curiosity, any sort of curiosity.  Of course, I am most drawn to students who unmask their fascination about areas that interest me most, but I can also relish the excitement other students expose about other subject matter.  After all, there truly is not all that much that does not interest me.  So even my job, a time-consuming job, indeed, has its aesthetic rewards. 

As a father, my daughters would often explore with me.  We usually sought out creek beds.  They shared my fascination.  We searched under rocks for whatever creatures might be hiding there.  We collected interesting stones, some beautiful, some just curious or unique.  We never spent enough time exploring, but we probably spent more time exploring back then than I do now because then it was easily justifiable as quality time with my children—not that I ever needed justification unless it was to supercede some less desirable chore.  Exploring with my daughters was never a chore.  This too was beautiful, to watch their fascination when they were young and to encourage its continuation when other pressures began to erode at their time too.

          Shortly after my younger daughter returned from her first year at Lehigh University , we took a day trip—she, her boyfriend, my wife, and I.  I planned the trip in an effort to capture and recapture something: to capture some time to appreciate spring’s beauty, to recapture some exploring time with my daughter, and to recapture a distant memory.  Her boyfriend’s presence—some fathers might say intrusion—did not elicit in me any resentment because he is one of us.  He appreciates.  I have often observed him light up when I ask him to explain some concept he has learned about physics, one of his majors.

          Thirty-five years ago, I was among a group of boy scouts who had traveled around New York State in an old bus with our scout master.  I remembered a place in the Catskills called North Lake where we were able to walk a few yards from the lake to look out and down over the Hudson River Valley.  It must have been a striking view to have lingered so vividly in my mind all these years.  With the help of the Internet, I was able to find the place, along with hiking trail maps.  Armed with these maps, we set off one early Saturday morning in May.  We were not to be disappointed for the area was even more extraordinary than I had remembered it.  We explored the trail to the edge of the escarpment, climbed out onto a large rock formation which projected out over precipitous slope, and gazed out over the river valley.  The river was more distant than I had remembered it, but the fresh May greenery presented an effulgent splendor that more than compensated for any lack of magnitude.  But this was only one of many such panoramic vistas, with rock formations that were both fascinating in structure as well as proportion.  We ate our Subway lunches perched on one of the largest of these jutting rocks, the verdant view pouring its grandeur out before our devouring eyes.  We also discovered extensive crevices between great rock formations large enough for my daughter to scuttle through, and we investigated pools and waterfalls teeming with vigorous fauna and new-sprung flora in and around them.  But to my particular delight—because wild flowers are just about at the top of my list of captivating interests—were exceptional specimens of Lady Slippers and Painted Trillium.

           This modest adventure provided an aesthetic grace note that will serve me for the moment—a consequential moment—until I seize the next opportunity that presents itself at another critical juncture during my walk through life.  As they say, “I needed that!”

           I had to know, too.  I own numerous field guides, including one on insects and spiders.  My visitor was probably a Goldenrod Spider, Misumena vatia, probably male, if my visual memory serves.  The next time I see one, I will scrutinize him more carefully.  Though my mind—along with this essay—has made him so very engaging, God’s hand will have done him even more justice.