Ramblings. As in: Have Words -Will Ramble. As in: Ramble: to write or talk aimlessly or without sequence of ideas, to proceed with turns and twists; meander As In: observances of an everyday life in passing through the spectrum of extraordinary.
Nashville at 3AM
Sunday, October 31, 2004
It's turn the clocks back morning. Usually, a grand day of squeezing just one more interval of stolen last minute dreams. The kind that come easy in the early light of morning. But not for me. Not today. Or last night. It was the classic textbook case of insomnia. Tossing and turning. Rolling things over and around in my mind. From one subject to the next until I had made the full circle. Started over with that first nit-picking worrisome thought and returned to pick, pick, pick at it like lint on a cashmere sweater.
Light on. Try to read. Too tired to read. Light off. Brain open. Material running wild and loose and knocking at all the doors. Light on. Light off. Until finally, "What-the-heck-I'll- get-something-done-if-I-must-be-awake-other-than-sorting-over-and-over-things-that- -I'm-too-uninspired-at-this-hour-to-having-any-kind-of-enlightened-epitome-on-how-to- handle." Light on. Feet on the floor.
Clean office. Clean cat pan. Fold Laundry. Shuffle papers from one corner of the desk to another corner of the desk. Move piles from under desk to bookshelf. Move piles on book shelf to under the desk. Check email. Hmmm. No one has written me at 5:00AM Wait. That doesn't say 5:00 - It says 4:00. Can that be right? Oh, of course. Tonight's the turn-back night. The night of extra sleep.
I imagine going to church. I imagine all the laughing bright-eyed people full of energy, gleaming and glowing with a new sense of purpose and possibility. I make a note to take a pillow and a blanket to the car. "Where's your wife?" they'll ask my husband and he'll say in his honest way, "Passed out in the car." So much for appearances but then appearances never never fit me well anyway.
But now it's morning here in Tennessee. That smoky grey of dawn. And the beauty of it takes the sting out of no sleep. The peace of it holds a gentle promise. That the world still turns mightily on its axis. That all my problems twirling like an effervescence baton throughout the night of my minds eye can quiet down now. The light has frightened them into the shadowmist. Into a reality that problems come. And problems go. That in the midst of wars and threats of wars, we continue with the simple, daily routines of living that give us the framework that make it worthwhile. Not just for one of us, but for all of us. The daily routine of hearing the squeaking paper delivery car smoking its way along. I imagine a couple, a man and his wife, working together to put more money in the bank, more food on the table. Or maybe for just a short season to get out of a jam, a tight spot on the horizon. Maybe, just for Christmas money. Maybe a 2nd Honeymoon. Or a first. A place with sun and fish and friends.
And from my office looking out into the trees and beyond, just over those hills that are casting off leaves by the thousands, I see the workers that are getting off the graveyard shift and their replacements driving in through the dark of morning to take their place. Good souls keeping clocks ticking and meters running and the world on a schedule of both our making and our embracing.
Amazing our connection. You there reading. The smoky delivery car bringing the news. The paper lying on damp grass. The dog next door straining at his leash, wishing it was within his reach. The coyotees begging the moon to stay. It's a mystical alliance it is. Our being here. And considering one another in the ways of humans recognizing the importance of being human. Sleep or no sleep. We continue on our journey in dead of night or this early morning light. Together.
And so it goes from this Pilgrim on the Road.
posted by River Jordan at 6:19 AM
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Blue Meteor's and Rhinestone Shoes
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
It's living the life that makes it worth living at all. I hate to think of people who have lay near death and with their final breath say "I could have lived," as a realization only too late of how dispassionately, deceived they walked out their days.
So it was a great blessing to have had a day full of life. And one that came in such a side door kind of way. An invitation to a party from a friend of a friend. The kind of invitation where you aren't really on the A list of invited guests but invited just the same. And once invited to a party in the country (Leiper's Fork - a charming and beautiful spot just south of Nashville) you must spread the word and invite your friends - who in turn - turn to their left or right and invite their friends and so on. And that's the kind of party that it was. Right out there in the daylight. Folks finding their way over the dale and up the hill (what's a dale anyway?) to this party location.
We were first to arrive which was a first for us for all of our lives. We were only first because the party started an hour later than we thought. Hmmm. We were now early party crashers or second string invitees. Not a good place to be. We made sandwitch's and made do. We marveled at the stream in front of the house and at the house itself which came with a pool, a pool table, a barn (and a barn cat), a firepit and much, much later, a million stars at night.
There seemed to be something and in a special way (but not lovey dovey couple ways) someone there for everyone. A group of young machos actually got out on the green and played bocci (?) ball and badmitton. Poorly. (Ok, bravely!) And laughingly.
Some of us were held transfixed in the court of Lestor Deal as he told us great tales down by the water. Tales of chicken coops and orange yolks and hog killings and how a man used to get by on $52.00 a month feeding a family of six. It's been a long time ago now and Lester stands up in his overalls (a big man) and tells about the seafood buffett down in Leipers and that if a woman is looking for a man, say a gentleman farmer, she might want to check out the pickens at Puckett's Grocery on a Saturday night where they have an all you can eat seafood buffett (that includes 3 kinds of shrimp and lobster tales) . Yes, a woman that hadn't had a man in a long, long time (according to the story) might want to just sneak in and sit real quiet (in order not to scare the men away) and survey the crowd just in case. "You never know," he tells us. "You just never know what you might find."
Lester buckdances on a Saturday night. He puts a basket out in front of his feet. He makes enough he says, "For his cold drink money. For pocket change." And sometimes he dances with his Rhinestones shoes. A gift from an admirer of dance we are informed. And those shoes, "why they glitter just like a diamond ring." We are intrigued. We are well fed with picture words and the sunlight on this day coming through the trees and bellies full of food that has been brought from far and wide (a taste of this and a taste of that.) We beg Lester in our lazy way for a dance and then I roll up my pants and kick off my shoes and wade through the cold, cold water, across the slippery stones and down the creek.
Later, our begging ringing in his ears, Lester dons the shoes, clears a space and starts his tape. "But only a short dance, " he warns, "Got another party to attend to." But we are happy to take of Lester what we can get.
He warms up with a brave volunteer dancer in his arms, stomping out the rhythem but it's Lester's smooth moves, his shiny shoes, that captivate us. That make us wish we could. Make us glad he can.
Then Lester solos with a buckdance and there is joy, joy, joy in his feet. All alone, he would be happy with the dance, just the dance and nothing more, this much I can see. Then he has to go as the sun is getting lower in the sky there is Lester and his shiny shoes retreating into the night.
Other people are coming. They are bringing guitars and banjos and the spirit of song. I think they are the "A" list people. The first string of invitees. They aren't. It seems that around Nashville when you mention party that people who make music come right out of the woods, right out of the trees. (Just come here and see if it isn't true.)
So the people came through the trees, and the stars came out in the sky. The moon dared us to believe that it was full, the crickets and coyotes kept time with the harmony of strangers who had never met before this night. A blazing bonfire kept us as warm as we dared to stand.
In that late, last look back at life someday so soon to come (it's all so soon in retrospect) it was a night that will be absent of regret.
And on the way home, a blue metor steaked across the sky so close it dared us to look, to remind us that we are smaller than some things but blessed to live and burn that bright in our own right. If for but us season, then this season is ours.
It reminded me of the parable Jesus told of the rich young ruler who had a feast and invited a great group to the party. But no one came. And so he sent a servant out into the streets to call who might come, to welcome all, and then those who came in were glad to be there and feasted well indeed.
As the night wore on, the "A" list dwindled. And those of us who had found our way there by over the shoulder invitations, by the friend of a friend of a friend, those of us who had found our way in from the streets were very thankful for the feast. Very thankful indeed.
And so it goes from this
Pilgrim on The Road
posted by River Jordan at 4:11 PM
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