things move around

How many times have I visited the superb Vancouver Aquarium, and stood in its rainforest exhibit, scanning the foliage for one of the reputed resident trio of three-toed sloths? At least 20. But fruitlessly: until today. Late this afternoon, after the throngs had gone, I watched awestruck as one of the exquisite furry creatures traversed the scanty canopy not six feet above my head, oozing mesmerically from the tip of one bent bough to the tip of one opposite, draping and drooping, probing, progressing by invisible integuments, moving with a meditative calmness which was a balm to the quotidian pangs within me. The performance was like a graceful dream in which nothing happens, over and over again, like a late Beckett play, which is nothing in the passing, but on passing, something. And then, unbelievably, I noticed the other two three-toed sloths: one was snoozing atop the tallest tree, the other eating an apple.

I haven’t eaten an apple. But tonight I ate a gingerbread man in the following order: arms, legs, head, torso (neck down).

And last week I had a son, will wonders never cease! He doesn’t make much sense to me, but then, to misquote an ent, he is very small. And the smell! I love the smell of baby in the morning.