In "See the Sea," a song on the CD, A Child's Celebration of Folk Music, Michelle Shocked sings, "Once I found a shell on the shore The oyster, he lived there inside of that shell I built him a sand castle and he lived there quite well Till the Ocean, she took him away to make pearls Till the Ocean, she took him away to make pearls." Somehow that seems to me to describe exactly how we (or maybe I should just say "I" and not presume for others) exist, sitting on the shore, building little empires in the sand, and, if lucky, doing a pretty good job of it. And then, eventually, the Ocean, the greater Universe. swoops in and washes the castles away, and scoops us up in the process. That works whether one is Christian or Buddhist or atheist or whatever, we only exist so long as sentient beings in a vast world, and then we are gone as ourselves, and so are our castles. Our bodies go back to the elements that made us, to be made into something else. Sort of like, to temporarily shift to another metaphor, dead or unwanted plants being gathered into a cosmic compost heap. The only question is where, if anywhere, our inner self goes, or what it becomes, or if it vanishes altogether. I personally trust that whatever happens is moving toward a better something, a pearl of being. In the interim, I'll sit here on the shore awhile longer, building my little castle, keeping an eye out for the rising tide. And I'll try to be the best me I can be.
Took my new tent and camping gear out for a test run Sunday night, in a rustic (read: "outhouse restrooms, no showers or other accessories") campground. Nice spot at the edge of the woods, firepit and all that. The weekend crowd had mostly left and I had the place mostly to myself. Someone in the distance was yelling profanities, but I tried to ignore him; when he fell silent the only sound was the birds and the breeze. No problems setting up the tent; we're getting to know each other, me the nuances and the difference between the instructions and actually doing, and the tent, if it has an inner awareness, seems to have grown less skeptical about my performance and is therefore less skittish about cooperating. Anyway, we're getting along. I find something profound in primitive solitude, figuring things out as I go, deciding what matters in the moment. All set up, and I set out for walk in the woods. Found a signpost with three numbers on it, and walked until "1" went one direction, "2" and "3" others. I had no map, and the signs were silent as to what each promised. But the park is not that large, so I simply took "1" in a pleasant loop through old forest and the occasional meadow, not so much wildflowers as simple foliage. Again the only sound the birds and breeze, offset by my footsteps and the occasional rustle in the treetops or underbrush, as I disturbed some other being's tranquility. Trail "1" merged into "2" and I found myself in a large meadow, this one with various flowers, and the occasional butterfly, some monarchs and a yellow swallowtail. Then into the woods, and back to the campsite. in time for dinner. The night went well, the solitude felt heavy and comfortable. The only sounds being crickets and tree frogs and the occasional click of branches or rustling in the treetops or underbrush. For a while I heard coyotes howling in the distance. Nature called around midnight and and I crawled out of the tent. No moon and no clouds, and the stars shown incredibly brightly. I walked away from the campsite into a clearing and simply looked around in awe. It's been years since I really saw the stars like that, and it brought back memories of summer nights in small town Nebraska, when our family would lay out in the front yard on blankets and dad would point out the constellations and the Milky Way, things not visible in city skies. The worst part of the night was around 3 a.m. when my stomach started to rumble and I realized the "Three-Bean Chili" may not have been the wisest choice among he dehydrated food selection at REI, but it had seemed at purchase time the most economical and easiest to prepare with the Jetboil. I dreaded having to trudge to that glorified outhouse and sit on that cold metal seat while the odors of others before me would engulf me. But my stomach settled and I fell into a deep sleep. The morning was bright and clear, and, after a cup of English Breakfast tea and a breakfast of dehydrated eggs and cheese, I wandered off on a nature trail, then packed up and returned to "the real world," with more than a little reluctance.
I suspect that there lies within each of us a vague landscape, imprinted in our earliest years, which flickers up from time to time with a sense of loss and of promise. A place whose wonder gets lost in translation, because that wonder is sourced more deeply than words. For me, it's the stark and sere landscape of northwestern Nebraska, a land of buttes and canyons, sagebrush and tumbleweeds, cattle and long barbed-wire fences whose fenceposts are capped with wornout cowboy boots. Open sky, towering white clouds against bright blue. Nearly deserted highways edged by brown and pale green, small sometimes empty creekbeds that wind into the distance and sometimes disappear into small canyons. Small scattered towns with wide streets and two-story buildings of faded brick and memories. I was born out there, and lived there only the first three years of my life. So my empirical memories are few, but it's the sense of openness and prairie wind that frames my recollections. I lived out there again for a year after college, and felt for that entire year that I had returned home. For reasons that no longer make sense to me now, but had to do with immediate demands of family and finance, I left and have never returned, save for two visits. It's a hard place for strangers to take root, and my passport, premised on only three years of infancy, was of dubious value. Sometimes I miss it more than I can say. Like this morning, as I sit here at my desk and glance over my right shoulder at the photo of a pair of buttes I spent more than a few days climbing and exploring. I hope to get out there again at least once more. But if not, I suspect I will pay it at least a brief visit in my journey to my next world; or perhaps I will settle there, realizing, finally, that it is "God's Country" after all.
In a former incarnation, i.e. a few decades back, I worked for awhile with what was then called a "retardation agency," part of the new wave techniques and philosophy for helping out people with lower I.Q.s, freeing them from state "homes" and helping them integrate into the community and to be treated more like everyday people. It hasn't always worked, state legislatures being much more willing to stop funding institutions than they were to fund community alternatives, but definitely an improvement over the then-status-quo. For a few months I was the live-in aide for a couple clients, one of whom, John, was in his early middle-age; a life in the state home had done him no favors in terms of socialization, but we generally got along. I remember seeing his mother from time to time, a gray-haired little old lady, and I couldn't help sometimes feeling a twinge of pity for her. I'm sure she had had dreams for her boy, and never dreamed she'd be trying to do what she could to help him move from the margins of society. I presumed she'd once had visions of grandkids and a daughter-in-law and a quiet slide into her "golden years." As I slide into my own dotage, in my seventh decade, my wife and I have a son living with us, 24 years old and seriously autistic, a sweet and loving guy who will almost certainly never be wholly on his own, or have kids. Much as I love him, and I do, truth be told I can't help sometimes envying my long-time friends who tidy their empty nests, and seem to go through life with more freedom and fewer commitments. Sometimes I even get out the pity-party paraphernalia. But then little things remind me that it all balances out. Today Dan and I were at the library, an almost-daily event in our mutual lives. Even though he has a bad hip he prefers to walk the stairs instead of taking the elevator. As we worked out way down, side by side, he with one hand on the rail, me beside him, he sort of lost his balance. Without seeming to think about it, he reached out and grabbed my hand; without thinking about it, I let him, and helped steady him. Then we finished our descent. No big deal, except that his blind and certain trust that I was there beside him, and ready to help, was his inadvertent gift to me, a demonstration of his faith in me, and it was a reminder to me that whatever else I have done and will do with my life, I have learned that I have value in, and gain from, simply being there. And I'm honored that I was there.
A beautiful July morning, bright sun, pale blue sky, soft breeze through the screened porch, verdant green lawn, looking out from beneath a cherry tree, chickadees and finches at the feeder and bird bath. The steady subtle pulse of freeway traffic just underlying it all, sort of like the pulse of the sea, though either ocean is thousands of miles away. Dogwood leaves rustle, now the birds squabble. My latest resident rabbit ambles by. I "know"-- my intruding monkey mind speaking -- that this tranquility is an interlude. Buddha reminds us that all is transitory, that the key is letting it be and letting it go, that clinging is what brings ultimate suffering. But there is always, and there is only, this infinite now, underlying it all. I heard a siren go past, a rescue squad or ambulance. It was Eric Burden who sang about hearing a distant siren, suggesting "someone else is in trouble." Not him. Not me. Not now. I think of people who are gone, especially my father, I recall him on his retirement farmstead, planting trees he knew would long outlast him, mowing a pathway up the big hill behind his house, so grandkids could climb up there and play in the dancing prairie grass. He lived, he loved, he left. I like to think his spirit moves with that prairie grass, and in the dappling leaves atop his trees. That all relates to all. Now a goldfinch drops to the birdbath. Amazing how brightly colored birds can be the hardest to spot; same with the cardinals. But they are not the only hidden jewels. This morning as I dragged the hose to water some new-planted hostas my eye caught a faint motion along the foundation of the house. A fat toad who'd been hanging out in the dampness created by the leaking faucet; he was only slightly visible, and I couldn't help feeling a twinge of pity for him, he seemed so desperate and so vulnerable, a pitiful attempt to hide or escape. Yet I also note that he has something else going for him, his drabness and what I suspect is a general lack of appeal for most carnivores. And as I moved along the garden I saw a couple other smaller toads. And of course their presence is a bit of Hell for insects and earthworms. So all relate to all. Yesterday a large red-tailed hawk settled onto our backyard archway. An awesome sight for me, no doubt a spot of terror for the rabbits and squirrels. He reluctantly took to the air when he noticed me watching him, disappointed I think to be dislodged from a prime vantage point for a quick lunch. Not long after he left my rabbit friend returned, spared the hawk, and ready to resume wreaking havoc on our gardens. All relate to all. This moment, those that were, those that will be.
When I was a kid my mother and father had a serious disagreement about putting tinsel on the Christmas tree -- Dad was of the school who tossed it on rather randomly, while mom insisted on carefully placing it so it looked neat and "right." That came to mind this July morning as my better half and I were working on the front yard garden -- I have over the years been letting that area fill in with ground cover, some of which is the "approved" kind and some the sort of invasive stuff that serious gardeners would pull out. I've been assembling rocks and driftwood, and so on in a manner I find pleasing, and letting the garden kind of run itself, within limits. The same with the back, lots of ground cover and basic stuff. The bunnies are happy out there, and the chipmunks. I keep the noxious weeds down but also tend to let it alone. Well. One could describe it as a Taoist sort of gardening, and one would think my spouse would like it. After all, she was born in the same Chinese province as the legendary founder of Taoism, Lao Tsu. But she is also a post-Mao-Cultural Revolution scientist, and takes a much more hands-on approach to the universe. Meaning, once she turned her attention to the garden, she was appalled. And once appalled, she's one to act. So now we are in sharp disagreement as to what comes next; a textbook garden, or the garden that wants to be. And I'm not super-naive. I know that human existence and the universe are not wholly in synch; I like antibiotics and I don't like insect invasions, I will trap mice and so on. But I do think the universe needs to be respected to the extent possible, and that it's as nice to watch the garden grow what it wants as it is to design and train it to be what the human mind can conceive. Bottom line, I guess, is that I have to decide what really matters, what things are worth fighting over, and to remember the old line from Hesse's Siddhartha, "Within you is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time and be yourself." So I guess I'll tend my inner garden, and savor its weedy glory.
On a whim I thought recently about Gary, who I had known as a kid, long ago and far away. He and I were two primary members of "The Black Pony Gang," a group of young toughs who haunted the 900 block of East 4th Street in a small midwestern town. Okay, not toughs. Elementary school boys who shared a common interest in cowboy comic books and American Horseman magazine and the like, and whose biggest adventures were long walks to the train depot or climbing on feed sacks in the grain elevator, late night gatherings under the street light at the t-corner, chasing snakes, and sometimes bareback rides on an irritable one-eyed Shetland pony named Checkers, who generally either bit us or bucked us off, or both (I said it was long ago and far away). I can still picture Gary as he was back then, crewcut (as we all were), striped t-shirt, blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up, hightop tennis shoes, and I can hear his sincere stutter and see his wide anxious eyes. He and his older brother and two sisters and parents lived in a small house on the rental side of the street; it wasn't till years later I realized -- and learned -- that his father had been an abusive terror. Back then he was just good old reliable Gary. Or, as we for some reason called him, "GO-E-O" ("Go" for short). Nice guy, not so good at schoolwork; I'd imagine nowadays he'd have had some interventions in his life. But not in those days. I moved away when I was eleven, and essentially lost track of him. Thirty or so years later I went back to the old town, and looked him up. He was working as a custodian at a local church, seemed the same gentle soul. We talked briefly of old times, and I left, and we never spoke again. When I googled him recently, I found his obituary. Died about six years back, a bearded gentleman with the same sad eyes, well-respected, the obit said, by the members of the church where he had been long-time custodian. No spouse or children, his brother, sisters and nephews and nieces surviving . All still local. His pride and joy, the obit said, were the photos he took and exhibited at the county fair. There had been a third prime member of the Black Pony Gang, Bruce the guy who owned the pony and the magazines, and whose father owned the grain elevator we used to hang out in. Bruce had named the Gang, and was its undisputed leader. My best friend, in some ways my hero, and sometimes my arch-enemy. He was a tough and tormented kid, who I knew would either go far or not at all. I kept intermittent contact with him for awhile, and was impressed he was dating the beautiful blonde siren I had always admired. He had a motorcycle. After high school he married (a different woman) and went into agriculture, specifically set up a hog farm. (Don't laugh, different times and it was a farm town after all). But then things turned sour, his wife left him with two kids and he sank into a long decline of depression. His parents raised his boys, and he worked part-time driving farm trucks in season. I knew all that, but in my mind's eye he was still Bruce and I looked forward to meeting him sometime and maybe re-hashing old times. But when last I saw him, maybe twenty years ago now, at a gathering of sorts at his sister's home, he was a heavyset bearded man who spoke little. I tried to talk with him, but he was not really interested. About a year ago I learned he had died, in 2017. I was neither surprised nor much touched; I think I'd understood him. But learning of Gary's passing touched some deep nerve. Such a sweet boy and simply my friend. All I see when I think of him are those boys on that post WWII housing development, back when the world was fresh and new, as verdant as the prairie grasses that grew along the fence-rows and that danced in the summer breezes. When all was possible and within reach. Who knew those years would unfurl as they did? I'm not sure what was gained and what was lost for both of them, but I know that, for me, in so many ways I have sought and failed to find the sense of wonder and magic and hope -- and certainty -- that the Black Pony Gang members shared in those innocent moments and minutes and mysteries so long ago. As James Thurber wrote somewhere, "I'd give anything to go back and relive it for just a few moments. But I don't think I can." RIP Go-y-o. And Bruce.
This time of Juneteenth has caused me to dwell a bit on the issue of American slavery. For most of my life I had a kind of intellectual/academic awareness of and contempt for the idea, but it was mostly that. After all, my American ancestors that I knew of were all from the free states of the northern U.S., and some fought for the North against the South. A few months back, researching my family tree, I found that one strand had come across the South, through Virginia and Kentucky before going north, and that in the 18th century had even owned some slaves -- "only three or so" -- but it goes without saying that that's three too many, and the fact that those slaves were emancipated on the death of the owners doesn't make up for it in any way, obviously. Then the other day I read about the body of an apparent slave found in England, from Roman occupation times. In reading up on that, I learned how much of the Roman Empire was based on slavery, and that anyone not deemed a Roman citizen had essentially no rights at all, and that slave owners were not required to provide their slaves with anything other than, and actually less than, the basic necessities of life. Not Roman equaled not quite human. The reason that struck especially home, I now realize, is that these slaves were not people from an exotic continent far from my bloodline, these were from the peoples of Ancient Britain, my ancestors. It struck home surprisingly hard, this realization of the absolute inhumanity of slavery -- shocking to me that I could have ever treated such a concept so intellectually. I'm embarrassed, frankly.
Kind of presumptuous to suppose my absence was noticed, but nonetheless, here I am, back from an unplanned, unforced, unexpected leave of absence from most internet activity. Suffice it to say I was presented with an apparent situation that threatened to undermine a lot of my basic assumptions about life and values. Ironically, things worked themselves out in a manner I never expected, in a way that suggests either basic misunderstanding on my part or answered prayer. In any event, all has seemingly settled back into the old routine. Except . . . . I came to realize how utterly ungrounded I am and how easily I could be knocked off kilter by life. So I'm on a sort of mission to find that rooting; I say "sort of mission" because I'm trying, in a Taoist way, to find my way to doing by not doing. More simply, what I'm trying to find is the underlying value of myself in the world. For a time that meant almost no writing, instead quiet meditating, including yoga. I re-discovered the dilemma that so fascinated me in my undergraduate university days: "What caught my eye in the history of nihilism is that Nietchze, Sartre, and others wrote books; a most committed and disciplined use of time. The same drive that led them to experience the experience of nothingness seemed to teach them other values as well -- and without contradiction." Michael Novak, The Experience of Nothingness (Harper Colophon 1979) at viii. At least as of now, I think I am at that point, that I have managed to find the light that leads through the tunnel; at least until it flickers out.
I've been rooting around in my family tree for several years now, and among other things it has brought my sense of mortality to life, an awareness sharply present right now, as I sit at this table in my writing nook, looking at an accumulation of bric-a-bracs, miscellanea, and memorabilia. My presence brings them to life for me, and I can't help wondering how they will look and feel to my survivors when I am gone. These stones and bits of driftwood gathered over time and distance, polished by frequent handling as I take breaks from writing. The framed photos of times past and often people passed. The small wooden Buddha from China given me by a long lost friend. The certificates and awards with which I vaingloriously decked on the wall before me. The white-tailed deer antler I found during a walk in the woods with a treasured friend whose companionship has been strained by distance and by the pull of separate families and responsibilities, of respectable adulthood. The books I have amassed over many years, some bought new, many bought second-hand, many gifts or found treasures. Even my state-of-the-art smart watch, one of my few 21st century indulgences. No one, not even those nearest me, can share the value these things have for me. The same way I can't feel the magic my father felt when he read Wolfville, a bit of light reading about life in the Old West, a very second-hand book he treasured, one he read in long-past evenings in a chair in a house long gone. I read it the other night because he liked it, and in his memory. But it didn't move me the way it did him. Then there is that box of old and unlabeled photos, people who smile stiffly for the camera in the mistaken belief they are making a memento that will shine forever under the dust of time. Now cold ashes of lives lived and gone. But maybe the better view is that someday some of my treasures will shine for some of my survivors, or someone visiting my estate sale, or even someone buying them from St. Vincent de Paul. Memorabilia cold and lifeless for awhile, until -- and if -- someone else infuses them with their own life energy. And with my blessing.
Looking out over our snowy backyard, maybe a foot of mostly white powdery stuff, I watch a pair of chubby brown cottontails grubbing about under the bird feeder. They happen to see me through the window and they bolt. I think of my old bunny buddy, Fritzy, who appeared at our backdoor maybe three years ago, one frigid morning, with a freshly damaged back leg, leaving bright red spots of blood on the cold concrete. Forgive the repetition of things already told, and the “Love Story” type flashbacks, but I keep remembering how she understood, risked the understanding, that we would not harm her (seemed to be almost desperately asking for help), so that if I turned on the light in the predawn darkness, all rabbits would scamper off except for her, she would run toward the door and let me feed her; her leg never healed right, but over the summers she hung around the house, took food from my hand, sometimes plopped down maybe 10 feet from me, the ultimate sign of rabbit trust. I miss her this morning, this first winter since she vanished last summer. And I miss the badge of trust she bestowed on me. Later this morning, I stand in my bathroom, performing my morning ablutions, my lovebird perched on a nearby cupholder, sometimes watching with interest, sometimes ignoring me, and sometimes preening of his own plumage. After we finish, he lets me take him in my hand and carry him upstairs. An act of ultimate trust, giving up flight (his only means of escape), knowing I will put him safely in his cage and reward him with a peanut. I’m honored by that, too, as I have been over the years with various dogs and the occasional cat. There is something magical about interspecial connections, about trust earned without words. Animals don’t know spoken language, they know body language, and they know self-preservation. To somehow bridge that barrier is indeed an honor, is magical, and I have been blessed to experience it.
Last week I just finished clearing my driveway and walks of six inches of snow by using my trusty old snowblower. After a break, I decided I'd do a bit more at the end of the driveway, which every winter seems to contract to a narrow passageway when I don't get the sides done. I pulled on the recoil rope to start it, and the damned thing broke, and the rope (cord really) vanished inside the machine. I turned to the trusty Internet and saw it's a relatively easy repair to make -- if I am willing to sit inside a cold garage and dismantle the exterior and root around a bit. I was not so willing, so I took it to my local shop for repairs. The nice lady said since it was simple they would "triage" it and I'd have it back in a day or so. That night the weather service posted an advisory to expect another six inches of snow. Next morning I called the shop, on the off-chance my blower might be ready soon. I told the guy on the phone I really needed it; he said, "you and about a million other people." He took my number to call me "on the off chance" it would be ready. Then he hung up, but not before happily advising me that "they say this is going to be a bad storm, too, really wet and heavy snow, nothing to be shoveling." I said thanks for the encouragement. No call that day, and last night the snow came just as predicted. So I girded my loins and bundled the rest of me, grabbed my shovel, and had at it. About an hour later, I was done, not bad, not as tidy as with the snowblower but tolerable good. My back didn't ache all that much. A couple hours later I looked out and saw that my friendly neighborhood snowplow had gone by and put a nice wall of icy snow across my driveway, maybe a couple feet high in spots. So out I went and grabbed the shovel once more, but this time my neighbor stopped by with his snowblower, and together we made quick work of things. So now I can get out of my driveway to drive to the repair shop to get the snowblower for next time. Life in the upper American Midwest. Livin' the dream.
I've got a photo on my desk, it's maybe 18 years old, and the "boy" in it is now 24. A lot has changed over the years, I've aged and he's grown up, but many things are the same. He still lives with us and will as long as we can care for him; he is still sweet, loving, and challenged. Anyway, this is what I feel and remember every time I glance at the photo. A small boy sits on a brown horse, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and a black riding helmet. Sunlight streams into the barn through an open doorway highlighting the boy, the horse, and four young women against a black background. The boy’s face is half-hidden, but he is looking toward his right, downward, toward three women standing off to that side. One of them, a teenager really, loosely holds a lead rope attached to the horse’s bridle. The horse’s body is facing the camera, but its head is turned to the boy’s left, in the opposite direction that the boy is looking. The horse is nuzzling a fourth woman who stands close by, her hands on her hips, looking at the boy and horse, a white hairband shining like a halo in her dark hair. The horse, too, nearly shines, his bridle sparkles silver, and sunlight glints off the boy’s helmet and the hair of three women. The woman facing the boy has her hair tucked beneath a red kerchief, her face and one arm bathed in sunlight that comes over the boy’s shoulder. That arm has one hand slightly raised, one finger pointing. The horse’s name is Snuffy. Three of the women are volunteers at this equestrian therapy center, the other is the owner and one of the teachers. The boy is my son. He comes to this place once every week, where he spends an hour on horseback, developing coordination, muscle tone, and confidence. My son's face is not clearly visible in the picture, but if you could see it, you would notice, want to or not, that it’s not quite right. The eyes are a little off, the mouth and nose too small. His skull fused while still in the womb, so that instead of having a soft spot, his growing brain pushed against the bone, trying desperately to find room, turning solid bone into nothing more than papery thin Swiss cheese. He was born with bulging eyes and a "conehead." He is better now, after major surgeries at three months, six months, and 18 months, all to open up, reconstruct, and brace the skull and pull the forehead forward. Three times we were led into pediatric ICU area, where we saw our little guy, ensnared in tubes and wires, the top of his head covered by pale yellow vinyl, like a puffy shower cap, his eyes swollen shut, immobilized by drugs and swaddling, his soft breathing accented by the quiet beep and whir of machinery. He wouldn’t care if you noticed his face but, truth be told, I would be thrilled if he felt a bit self-conscious, even as I tried to reassure him. Because his deformed skull is not our little guy’s only birthright. If you were in the photo with him, and you looked him fully in the face, he would not look back at you. He never makes deliberate eye contact, and rarely talks in full sentences. He never plays with other children, other than his "neurotypical" twin sister. My son is autistic, which means he is with us in his own way, on his own terms. On a very few levels he is like any other boy, busy with school, swimming, and playing (usually alone). He loves reading and slapstick humor. He’s great with numbers and calculations and abstract facts, and seems impervious to what other kids think of him. But he does have fears, wants, and needs, which he doesn’t express well or often; his laugh is infectious, and his tears, rare as they are, will tear your heart out because they are so honest. He has rarely lied to me, not because he is a saint, but because he finds it hard to picture or describe the world as other than it is. He seems without guile or guilt, likely because he can conceive of nothing else. Back to the photo. These four women, like so many others -- therapists, teachers, doctors, relatives, babysitters, parents, and us -- have come together, been brought together by this guy. We all work to draw him out of his world and into ours. We give of ourselves to give him, this sweet little boy, an entrance to society. All as he, in his innocent way, is as naively accepting of all efforts as is the horse in the picture, taking some of what is offered, and, rarely (though more and more lately) reaching back out and letting the others in. Every time I see the photo I am reminded that sometimes, even in an apparently random configuration of otherwise unrelated people and events, we can make a beautiful picture against an unknown and uncaring blackness.
Yesterday was cold and hazy, with fresh snow piled on last week's crust and ice. A perfect day for walking, and I went out in nearby conservation park, where the idea is to leave nature alone, save for keeping the trails relatively clear and safe -- and discouraging people from wandering off and disturbing the underbrush and the natural patterns of things. A great city refuge for a small herd of deer and a couple ambitious, fearless flocks of wild turkeys. And for pondering. Without the cloak of foliage, it's easy to see the underlying trees and trunks and rocks, outlined by shadow and snow. And that starkness suggests a deeper truth. In our society we like to keep our parks sanitary and our cemeteries manicured, to hide the sick and old away, to have our seafood wrapped and our beef presented to us in tidy steaks and roasts. But in the conservation park trees grow as they will, and dead trees stand until wind or relentless gravity pulls them down. And when they fall they lay in silent memory of what they were, as they decay into the earth from which they grew. Seeing them, especially the fallen old oaks and once-towering maples and pines. sometimes gives the impression that some sort of plague has fallen on the forest. But truth is the conservation park is one of the few places I go where things are not prettied up, where reality shows itself. It interests me that the dead trees seem to have died at varying stages of life; in an orderly and Edenic world, they'd all grow out their natural lives, until they reached maximum size and age, but obviously many, perhaps most, did not. At one point along the trail two large oaks stand beside one another, like massive brothers. Or, rather, they once did. One still towers over the scene, but the other has been reduced to a huge stump, with the tree once above now stretched out into the foliage. I wonder why that's so, what quirk of nature spared one and downed the other. And I realize how little I really know about nature, much less about the nature of things.
While cleaning up the kitchen tonight I thought, for some reason, of our old family dog, Beans, and particularly of her last day of life. She was a small Fox terrier mix, white with black spots, with a stubby tail and a large friendly personality. Dad had named her "Beans" after a dog in a comic strip he'd read as kid. Beans was with us since she was a pup, with me from the age of 9 until about 20. As a young dog she was energetic and lively, and often liked to accompany me on rambles through the cornfields and remnant pasture across the street from our house. As she grew old, she became warty, fat, and a bit arthritic. But still lovable and loving. On the day that came to mind, mom had called me at my apartment and said that she thought Beans was dying. I came home, it was a mild day, and Beans was sitting across the street from the house at the edge of the field, staring out over it. Mom said she'd been there most of the day. I walked out and sat beside her, and talked of our rambles and all that, and told her it was okay now to go, that those walks were wonderful but no longer of our time. I said goodbye, and knew it was okay. I can't speak for her, but a gentle cloak of closure settled upon me. After while she let me pick her up and carry her back to the house. I took her inside and lay her on the sofa. About an hour later she died. It's been many years since that day, and I hadn't thought of it for a long time. Tonight it rose up, and my eyes watered. More than watered, a few stray tears ran down my cheek. Hello again, Beans, and goodbye again.