Things We Know (But Have to be Reminded Of)

Well, after an unexpected blog hiatus, thanks to:
1. lack of internet access at the farm, and 
2. some interesting news that prompted a couple days' haze and drinking, the journey continues.

What have we missed since then? So much and so very little.

Let's think back to the Saunders interview in NYT. He said something in there that's become eerily resonate, as things we know but have to be reminded of often do.  

“It would be so interesting if we could stay like that,” Saunders said, meaning: if we could conduct our lives with the kind of openness that sometimes comes with proximity to death.

Bummer, man. That's a bummer. Mind if I do a j? (says the Dude.)

That's just it though, isn't it? That's pretty much what all the fuss is about--the constant conflict between what is undeniably temporary (life) and our bewilderment/anger/resentment/struggle for acceptance of that fact. 

But Saunders is right: that constant proximity to death can create an openness, an honesty, if given the chance. We can work to stay in tune with our brevity, and that openness can make it all seem a little lighter, a little easier to bear. Pleasurable, even--the way a long hike with a heavy pack strains you, but you know you only have a few miles left, so it still manages to be invigorating. (All about the journey, baby, it's all about the journey. But we know that, don't we.)

So as yet another little stretch of my journey is now, undeniably, coming to a close, I'm again thinking about what's over that next ridge. I can't see it yet, but I'm pretty sure there's something. Something different, something beautiful even. The best part, what's keeping me from stumbling or stopping for a break, is at the moment I'm largely unconcerned with what it is specifically--could be anything, could be nothing. 

Nah, what I'm concerned with right now is the old farm house through which I'm passing, with its chicken coup to the east and field of rye to the west. I'm thinking about the way the sunflowers stood tall out front last summer, then sagged by late fall, and now the ground where they were lies empty. I'm watching the cardinals outside my window dart between trees. I'm watching yesterday's snow melt in the shadows as the sun creeps higher and the air warms. 

I'm watching the wind kick up dust on the gravel road that snakes toward the ridge. It will still be here in May, but I won't be. I'll be somewhere beyond it, taking in the scene and trying to say something about it.

Before it's too late,
--CQ