Morton's Fork

Well, first of all, thank you to those of you who encouraged me to take on this new blog! I think Ron aptly referred to you as "enablers." I will now consider myself enabled. And, wow, your encouragement sort of put the pressure on me to produce something profound today! For that, let me refer again to the title of the blog: "Sky Blue and Black." It is the title of a gorgeous Jackson Browne song from 1993's I'm Alive, the album he wrote after his infamous break-up with Daryl Hannah. (I'm not even going to go there because it has absolutely nothing to do with why I stole the title for my blog.) As I revealed yesterday, the song came on while I was walking, and I felt that the sky above me was mirroring the song. Clearly, it's a break-up song, but my focus was on Jackson's powers of observation and ability to evoke mood through simple images. Consider these lines:

You're the color of the sky
Reflected in each store-front window pane
You're the whispering and the sighing of my tires in the rain
You're the hidden cost and the thing that's lost
In everything I do
Yeah, and I'll never stop looking for you
In the sunlight and the shadows

Blue skies are metaphor for joy, while dark skies portend sadness. Such is life, right? But the song offers more than just another take on the duality of opposites. Never stop looking. My own powers of observation have often left me disappointed, and so honing them has been a goal of mine for awhile now. In the busy-ness of life, too many things slip right by us. But in our quiet moments, when there's a need to be separate, the world is open to observation. My morning walk is the perfect time and place to practice seeing the world. I have marveled at armadillos, alligators, sand cranes, anhingas, herons, woodpeckers, osprey, and vultures. But I've also observed a lot of garbage. (This marks the end of the profundity of this post.)

Of course, there is litter. It's a public park, and some visitors were absent the day they taught the DO NOT LITTER lesson. The stewards of the park do a pretty good job of cleaning up, but my sunrise arrival there reveals all that has accumulated throughout the previous afternoon and evening. I like finding things, and occasionally these things end up in my home. Some abandoned strapping gave new life to a beach chair. A child's sparkly turquoise butterfly barrette joined a basket of shells. And an art deco shelf bracket is waiting for me to find its mate, which certainly must be there somewhere.

So today, I found a fork . . . in the middle of the road. And a voice in my head said, "Take it." I picked it up so that it didn't wreak havoc with anyone's tires, looked it over, and pondered whether or not I needed a good fork. Well, I happen to be well supplied in that department, so I thought perhaps someone else in need of a good fork might find it and take it home. There's no Lost & Found at the park, but I took note of a speed limit sign planted in some sandy soil, and I stuck a fork in it. I hope someone finds it.

John Morton was the Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry VII in the 15th century. He decided that the rich must have money that they could contribute to the royal treasury, but that the frugal, who must have accumulated savings, would also have money, so no one could escape his demands for contributions. "Morton's Fork" came to be applied to a situation in which there are two choices or alternatives whose consequences are equally unpleasant. Do I leave the fork in the middle of the road where someone might run over it and possibly have to fork over money to repair a flat? Or do I take something for which someone else has a greater need? Because I don't need a fork. But in a way, I gave a fork, right?

There's only one way to end this post. May the fork be with you.

Fork 'n litter.