Squarely in the Frame

The 3am thunderbolt crashed into what was already a restless night. The weekend had been full of good, hard work, “Fall Cleaning,” perhaps, what with furniture rearranging, popping unwanted items out onto the front verge and watching them go in 15 minutes, laundry, minimal but well-intended yard care in this continued drought, Red Sox games, more laundry. Sunday we had our normal group of kids in the Atrium, entertained a guest while watching Jimmy G get injured (now who is not paying attention??), tuned in another late Sox game, staying with them through the top of the 7th.  Now as my train  lumbers into town very low clouds drift over the bay. It was a downpour as we left the house but yes, the dog will get his walk, and somehow most of us in this moving tin box will stagger into the office on this gray Monday morning, recovering.

The notion of a “frame”  began to percolate on my marsh dog walk last Wednesday. We took the one mile trek, since the usually creaky dog returned from his previous weekend in the kennel oddly rejuvenated.  As we climbed the stony incline we saw directly in front of us a creature standing stock still. I hauled in the dog just to be on the safe side and rattled some brush to clear the path. I wondered, ” what is in my frame of sight, most days?”

This thought returned two days later when the dog was well underfoot and in the way of my hurrying. When I heard myself mutter, “You—You are squarely in the frame!” I caught a breath and wondered again how and why this phrase keeps circling my mind without finding a landing place.

Perhaps it’s not a question of who or what enters and leaves my literal frame of sight. Each day is full of responsibilities and tasks for people near and far. Also, our frames obviously change as we travel through passing hours and days. Car and even lowly commuter trips expose us to hundreds of miles.

Maybe the question is on my frames of mind. I can’t seem to shake off the form of a square for this frame, but I am wondering how porous the boundaries are. “I’m running behind,” I cry to the windshield on an extra trip to work last week. The answer comes from the Voice who knows me well:  “What are you chasing?”

I wonder if my frame is being stretched.


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