McLean, Virginia, December 1978

By Andrea Scarpino

 

A house burns in the background of Joel Sternfeld’s photograph: orange flames rise in a slant from the roof, a fire truck’s long arm and basket draw near. In front of the burning house, what looks to be a roadside stand, some pumpkins stacked neatly for sale, some broken and rotting in the foreground as if thrown from the stand.

 

One firefighter in a yellow jacket, helmet, tall boots. Not fighting the fire in the background but choosing a pumpkin from the stand.

 

For as long as I can remember, I have had anxiety, panic attacks, have woken in the night to worry about things over which I have no control: the possibility of planes crashing, losing my job, nuclear attack, the sun exploding. I have vivid childhood memories of crying in bed with worry that my baby brother would someday use drugs.

 

Last year, an internal medicine specialist asked me if I spend most of my time thinking and living in the present, future, or past. We sat in an exam room while she clicked through PowerPoint slides of the brain. I wanted answers for my chronic pain and she kept turning the conversation to meditation and prefrontal cortex activation.

 

‘Future or past,’ I answered, annoyed, already narrating in my head the story I would tell about our interaction. She nodded.

 

Yesterday, overcome with distraction, I sat on my office floor and watched the sky outside my window: robin egg blue, quickly moving cumulous clouds. I thought about Sternfeld’s photograph: the house burning in the background, a firefighter buying a pumpkin. A metaphor for living in the present?

 

We have very little control of the future and no control of the past. My internist was clear: worry changes nothing except the neural pathways in our brain.

 

Backstory: the burning house was part of a training exercise; the firefighter choosing his pumpkin was on a break.

 

Boston Marathon bombings. Causalities. One photograph: a flash of orange flames as runners near the finish line.

 

“Write down this meditation,” my internist had said. Yesterday, I sat on my office floor, unfolded her words in my lap:

 

Let everything I see, let it be good.

Let everything I hear, let it be good.

Let everything I say, let it be good.

 

Again and again, I said her words quietly. I watched the sky.