They see me. Different directions. The refraction. Light on my edges.
The kids’ drip, drip, dripping faucet. The bathroom sink. My little boy is 15. He has a razor and shaves. My little girl is 11. She wears eye shadow sometimes.
They are growing up. I am going back. Collecting cars—Matchbox and Hot Wheels. Playing a handheld Pac-Man game from the 80s. Eating Skittles. Sipping Sprite.
Feeling fine.
Tonight, there’s no time. Just a mild, warm wave of awareness wrapping up all around me. Letting me let go.
And focus.
On the bird my daughter drew for me. The apple and orange my son inspired me to eat. All the moments I have become.
Rain. The puddles. A grackle at the feeder. These are important today. It isn’t the buzz of the headlines. News twisted to push agendas. Keep them rich. Keep them poor. Sick, sick, sick. Buy, buy, buy. It’s the yellow-eyed black bird holding its long tail in a “V” as it scatters seed onto the porch.
There’s a church bench out there. A twelve-footer. Weathered by snow, wind, rain. The ups and downs of temperature. Waiting for anyone to take a seat. Though it was used only on Sundays, holidays, and special occasions in the past, it saw more action then. Now mostly, we walk past it. Coming and going as families do.
My daughter sits there most. Sometimes on her phone. Other times with a book. But I’ve looked out the window and seen her many times sitting quietly, watching birds, talking to clouds, petting or feeding stray cats. Lately, a spunky black one named Obsidian. She loves it like it’s her own.
I see more these days than I have in the past. Life has slowed. I pick and choose what will consume my energy, use up my time. I don’t waste efforts on what others want me to think because I have my own list of simplicities to explore.
Up to the city siren and out of bed quickly to survey the situation.
As if there’s anything I could do to save us.
The fierce wind drives waves of rain. Trees and wires sway. Lawn chairs tumble across the yard. Bird feeders swing wildly on their hooks. A garbage can rolls down the street.
In the basement, we wait it out.
I gaze at the wide wooden beams above that support us every day. Run my fingers along the rough edges to rebuild my confidence. This hundred-and-something-year-old home has weathered plenty. It will outlast me. Maybe even the newest builds in the neighborhood.
The siren stops.
We head upstairs.
My wife gets eggs out from the fridge.
The kids fill bowls with Lucky Charms.
I head out onto the front porch.
Hairs up on the back of my neck. Ears drinking up sounds. Eyes scanning the sky, hoping there’s more to come.
The virus is picking up pace again. At least that’s what the news reports. I’m not sure if it’s that more people are getting it or that we’re discovering that more people have it. I suppose that’s the same thing, but what I’m trying to get at is if we went around testing everyone to see they were allergic to bee stings, we would quickly discover that many more people are allergic than previously thought. We would see that many die and many suffer, and that bees change lives forever in negative ways.
And the people that complain and say they’re changing the world by creating awareness would march and shout. And the people that hate bees anyway would have an excuse to exterminate them and all their insect friends. The grasshoppers, the ladybugs, and then the butterflies. Fuck those nasty butterflies, looping all over the road in the sunshine while we’re trying to get from point A to point B.
Yes, the haters would want to keep all insects out. They would probably start by focusing on ones of a particular color or pattern then move on to the ones that don’t fly quite like the others. Maybe start with a giant wall. Or a net. When that won’t work, it’s time to arm everyone with Raid and flyswatters. Maybe call it a right and add it to a document that was written three hundred years ago. It will give people a little more pride as they grip that handle and swing, swing, swing away at that wretched brown house moth.
Humans are the problem. We believe we’re so goddamned important. Some of us live by books written by humans that tell us how great we are and how great we can be—especially, if we believe the words of these particular books. Some believe in TV. Twitter. Facebook and YouTube because we don’t want to believe in books.
We don’t take the time to pick ourselves apart while observing what’s all around. If we did, we would see that our pieces are shared and common. We’re part of everything. Part of the trees, the water, the air. Part of our friends and enemies. The doves, the frogs, the stars, and the oil that runs beneath the crust. But we’re lazy. We want the world and we want it now—money, love, freedom, and happiness—and we want it given to us. We want our fair share.
Those of us that see this mess, that sense the vibrations and are seeking to understand, are busy building rockets so we can get the fuck out of here before the powder keg gets lit by some carrot-faced billionaire. There’s a couple thousand of them in the world and I’m sure more than one is getting a foot rub under the sun by some poor kid that’s there thinking it’s just a summer job and he’ll never have to get higher than mid-thigh.
This isn’t our planet. It’s shared. We’re guests. That’s why we ought to work together to take care of it, to take care of each other. But we don’t. We’re selfish, driven by our personal agendas, our will to be powerful and control. We believe we’re all-important and so we shout and tweet and post because we have special, original opinions that need to be heard. We want to be right. To feel good. We want to change the world. And the only way to do that is to accumulate likes from the like-minded, followers that are just that, followers, and get the sheep to hit SUBSCRIBE.
In short, we’re getting too big for our britches. We can’t believe we’re part of a bigger plan that doesn’t align with our expectations. And so, there are fights. Frustration. Little needles of hatred poking under the surface as we smile at a neighbor who’s staked a red or blue political sign in their yard. And those that have the balls to raise anything but (insert your flag here)? Shame on them.
We need to get out of and over ourselves. Break up what we know. Push and challenge ourselves to understand the bullies, accept the so-called oddities, and fight the urge to conform. Learn to listen. Open your eyes. Pull away from the screen and take a look around. The time we have created is running out. There’s no stopping it now. It’s going to get you.
The virus. An asteroid. Famine.
Abuse. Neglect. Murder.
A giant, rolling wave.
A head-on collision as you swerve to miss a butterfly.
A bee-sting.
Or maybe, if you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll die in your sleep. If that’s lucky at all.
Up late on the eve of my 47th birthday. Drinking vodka and Sprite. Eating sour Twizzlers. Looking at the flies I purchased from Orvis during a 70% off sale.
Finally, they’re here.
The media shows a world going to hell, but selfish me, I’ve been thinking about fishing. Checking the mailbox twice a day for the past week. It’s not that I don’t care about the state of the world. I do. That’s why I’d rather be wading a stream. Balancing on an uneven surface. Casting into sunlight that shimmers on ripples. Landing line under low-hanging branches. Near the banks. Onto swirling dark pools. Over deadfalls. All as life expands and contracts, creatures living and dying and growing and fighting, giving birth and murdering, all around me.
And if you take a moment to remove yourself from where you’re at by looking up—maybe through a basement window at pinholes of light in a black sky, as you type and drink and think, letting yourself be taken away like a lure in uncertain current—you will consider and appreciate all of this. No matter how dark and fluid and out of control it may be.
Fight the urge to fall into the roles they make for you.
Explore all that’s not shown in your own good time.
Let yourself be moved by this experience. Even if it’s a bit of boozy self-indulgence, marveling at colorful flies tied by mysterious hands, as you await the arrival of another year.
The Crooked Steeple 