I am a human. On this, a Monday night, the twenty-third of March in a year some of the world would agree is two thousand and fifteen years after the birth of Jesus Christ. A kind of arbitrary milestone in an impressive spectrum of beginnings planet earth has had: accreting out of a bunch of dust; reforming after having the moon knocked out of us; all that boiling simmering down and the iron sinking to allow the earth’s crust to form; non-toxic oceans; cellular life; plantssssssss. You see where I’m going with this. There are a lot of stories out there. The ground you’re standing on is so rich with history you could spend the rest of your life learning everything about those few square feet and you’d probably die in the middle of the story. So much. So much, and we never get it. Not all at once anyway. Humans just don’t learn.
I am…alive and awake and mortal and pleased to be all of the above and non-specifically hopeful and feeling like an organ player in the ecstasy of some symphonic climax, hands and feet all engaged in the labor of this huge instrument. But it’s just my brain. Steadily pedaling bass notes processing all that I have taken in over the past few days.The reeds are my emotions, piping away with an undirected enthusiasm. Chipper melodies and sour notes mingle together. Cacophony. But here is the solo, vulnerability and fear. That’s it. Eureka! Tonight, what I’m feeling has a name. I am afraid.
I am afraid that everything I think is wrong. The past few weeks have upended me a bit. Dumped out of the wheelbarrow, unceremoniously, on my ass. You have reached the end of this ride. What you do next is entirely up to you. But you’re not getting back in this particular wheelbarrow and it’s leaving. The time for this is passed. It’s a sunny day in this old-fashioned, corn-fed fugue, and my overalls are cut-off and dusty like I like them to show that I’ve been working and playing. and the sky is the kind of blue you want to get lost in. Makes you believe if you kept staring at it you would find yourself transported to anywhere the sky was that same blue in that moment. So it’s not an awful kind of metaphoric day to second guess yourself from the tips of your boots to the crown of your head. So you have a sit, maybe, on that soft green Technicolor grass. And invite the clouds to come in and make shapes to tell your fortune. And you realize you make your dreams come true every day. So then what? What’s the best dream? Or….
The wind sounds different in places where the land doesn’t rise and trees are rare. How do you pick when there are rights and no wrongs?
Among other things, I don’t know how to absorb all this trauma in the world. Or accept how little use most of us make of our lives. Or what to think if it turns out there is no use to make.
And that’s how I feel tonight.