Thanks to Art
The lemon tree at the acupuncture studio up the block is covered in blossoms and bees. Always that smell delights me and reminds me of Phoenix and my two favorite days of the year there.
The first day comes on gradually in March as one citrus tree after another releases the buds it’s been holding all winter in its pockets of leafy green. When the day finally arrives, the trees in every neighborhood phone each other to say, “It’s time.” In unison, they shimmer like sequins in bright sunlight as the bees catch scent and have their way with them. The golden threads of the trees’ sweet fragrance lace together in a net of magic that covers the whole city in olfactory entrancement.
The second day shows up all of a sudden near the end of October about the time the prolonged heat of summer has folks angry enough to smash their cars through ice cream shop windows just to find better air conditioning. One morning, unsuspecting Phoenicians, with no hope of respite remaining, walk outside their homes into air that feels, wait, what? Pleasant. Sidewalks take a rest from the months of seeming undulation beneath rippling waves of heat. The winds let their fire bellows clatter to the ground and the palm trees sigh in a gentle breeze. Convertible tops are lowered. Golfers laugh in wonder. With the flick of a switch, Fall arrives.
I hated Phoenix when I moved there. The first orange blossom day came and went without my noticing. Same with the celebrated day in October. One hot afternoon, I was whining about Phoenix in the library at work when I should have been billing hours. Art Gorman, sort of a hotshot trial lawyer in the firm, got tired of listening. At the top of a yellow legal pad, he wrote, “Things I Like about Phoenix.” Then he looked at me, waiting.
“C’mon,” he said, “There’s got to be something.”
“No mosquitoes,” I conceded.
So that was number one. He wrote it down. “What else?”
I had nothing. He set down his pen, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head.
If I were Art, I would have given up on me right there. But he was cursed with optimism. “I know something you’ve got to like.” He smirked and his eyes gleamed. “Truly Nolen cars.”
“Are you talking about the yellow VW Beetles with the big black mouse ears and the curly black tails? The ones advertising the pest control place?”
He nodded with a self-satisfied smile that bordered on creepy, but not as bad as Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
“You got me. I love those little cars.” At the time, Art didn’t even know I’d driven two Beetles before moving to Phoenix, a tan one in law school, and a taxicab yellow convertible after I graduated. He just knew I was a lover of whimsy. So Truly Nolen cars made two items on my Phoenix list.
“Janice, people flock to Phoenix every year because they want to live here. There are things to like. Look for them. When you find one, write it down.” He gave me the legal pad.
I’m not exactly disciplined, so I never did add anything to Art’s list. But I paid attention. The next year, I noticed the citrus blossoms in March and the first temperate breeze in October. The list in my head grew long. The day I left Phoenix, four years after I’d arrived, I sat on my black and white kitchen floor and wept like a little kid.
Art’s list did not change my nature, which some might call pessimistic, though the MMPI-2 placed me squarely in the realist category. (Of course, one might argue persuasively that realists are necessarily pessimistic, but such would be antithetical to my point here.) My friend Art changed my life, by teaching me to be on the lookout for what delights me. I don’t have to expect something good, or hope for it, or visualize it. I just have to notice it when it’s staring me in the face.
I thought about Art last week while I was reading The Power of Wonder, Monica Parker’s 2023 book, in which she describes the emotion of wonder, why it’s valuable, and how to get more of it. You might experience wonder, or awe, from seeing a total eclipse of the sun. Or, wonder could be lurking in the contemplation of a folded universe, Parker says.
If, like me, you stayed home for the eclipse and you’ve never contemplated folding anything more complicated than a cootie catcher, don’t fret. According to Parker, research confirms that we can find wonder in the quotidian. Instead of waiting around to be struck on the forehead by the Big Wonder, start with smaller stuff that’s readily available if we just slow down and watch for it.
For me, I was delighted during Covid Times by sidewalk graffiti showing a gas mask next to the words “For Your Lungs Only.” I still smile whenever I walk by it. For the past week, I’ve been gawking at amaryllis growing wild at the foundation of a forlorn old house just begging to be replaced by multi-story condos for hipsters needing an overpriced place to work from home. Okay, maybe Volkswagen bugs dressed up like mice or sidewalk graffiti or even striped Barbados lilies are not the kind of thing that will give you goosebumps or leave you awestruck. But they’re tiny little wonders enough to make me fall in love – or back in love – with my place in the world.
Unless you’re greedy, I’m pretty sure the wonders are all around us, like birds’ nests on the ground.
