I love the story about Henry David Thoreau's visit to New York City. (Yes, visit, as in singular.) He reported, "I visited New York City last Tuesday, and met no real or living person."

(Okay, I have friends in New York City; so blame Henry. Even so, his point is well taken. And truthfully, it could have been in any neck of the woods.)

There's a wonderful movie, Don Juan de Marco about a young man who believes he is Don Juan. Literally. A psychiatrist is given the job of curing him of his delusion, to bring him back to reality. But the psychiatrist is intrigued by the boy's story and the boy's infectious passion of life. The psychiatrist wonders about his own life, it's obligations and a nagging sense of disenchantment. The boy senses this. One day he says to the doctor, "You need me for a transfusion. It is only in my world that you can breathe."

Yes.  Sign me up for some of that. 

There is no denying the fact that we live in a world where we don't breathe all that well.  It is too easy to opt for, or be tempted by, distraction; to create a life filled (suffocated) with encumbrances and cares. And especially urgent meetings.  It is something about an inherent need to justify our time as well spent. Even if it involves our passion. As if our passions (and even our hobbies) must be justified to be valid. I picked up a book the other day with the title, "What you are really meant to do." (I honestly couldn't wait to find out.) A well-meaning title (because we all have a place where our passions do come to life), but it ends up creating an itch exacerbating some internal clock that tells us we find meaning only when or after we arrive at our dream job. There is something dispiriting about believing that now--this present moment--now, can only be an interim life where we tread water.

There is a consequence to be sure. Frances Mayes recognizes this, writing of her time in Tuscany in her book Bella Tuscan: Gradually, I fall into time (there). At home in California, I operate against time. My agenda, stuffed with notes and business cards, is always with me, each day scribbled with appointments. Sometimes when I look at the week coming up, I know that I simple have to walk through it (tread water).

Here's the deal: As time goes on--the time we operate against--we will feel a reluctance to let enchantment happen. Something about holding back the cards that have been clutched so close to the chest, hedging our bets, not wanting all of our eggs in one basket, afraid to let go lest we be disappointed.

Passion. The very word puts some of us on edge.

Enchantment. Okay to describe a children's movie. But considered optional and no longer vital for our adult psyche.

A quirky movie with the sophisticated title, Joe versus the Volcano, is about a young man who has resigned himself to slogging through life. He puts in his time at a job he detests. He is hampered by persisting attacks from a "brain cloud," a supposedly fatal ailment. (I laugh out-loud when his friend asks incredulous, "You mean you were diagnosed with something called a brain cloud and didn't ask for a second opinion?")

Through a bizarre twist, Joe is presented the chance to sail to an obscure island where he is to be offered as a sacrifice to the volcano gods. Believing that he will die anyway he takes the offer. The trip, of course, awakens him from his soul-sick stupor.  

And for the first time, he notices.  

He sees.  

He is enchanted.  

He feels gooseflesh.  

And he learns the lesson that it is not just where you look, but how.

"My father says that almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to. He says that only a few people are awake and they live in a state of constant total amazement." (From Joe versus the Volcano)

There are ways that this culture can lull you to sleep if you aren't careful, and don't occasionally stop just to look around. The irony is that it's a sleepwalking induced and kindled by the notion that life is meant to be perpetual motion, as if life lived fully implies relentless activity.

What are you doing?

Nothing?

Nothing? How do you get away with that?

Yesterday our bird-feeders were visited by three Cedar Waxwings. I sat watching through my study window. Waxwings are not uncommon, but this is a little late in the season for them. They are surreal in their elegance. They are a crested bird, greyish brown with a canary yellow belly. Zorro-like, they wear a black mask and chin. Each looks like a fine porcelain figurine, delicate and without blemish. While I watch, a nuthatch shuttles from feeder to tree trunk, one sunflower seed per trip, each time wedging the seed into a crevice of the bark where he would, from my way of seeing, stand upside down while pecking away at the shell.  

Sometime during this pageant, it occurred to me that this is it. This, as in this elusive essence we call life. I tried to remember the Thoreau quote about going in the woods to drink from the very marrow of life, but I couldn't quite come up with it and realized that it didn't really matter anyway. I doubt that the cedar Waxwings would have been impressed.  

If you are lucky, you grab hold of these moments when they come, for they are parcels of life undistilled. And you save the analysis for later on down the road.  

You could, I suppose, stop and take a picture, maybe post it to Facebook, if you wanted to take the time to find your phone. Or chuckle at the need to confine the moment, push it aside and curl up on the couch to watch the birds, listen to their song, and feel the gooseflesh reminding you that your heart is still intact.