In the dark I know my way from bedroom to kitchen. Under the trees I make my slow nighttime way through the woods behind the house. I know where the trees are, last year’s fallen branches, the muddy hill. Vines wrap around my boot, but I recognize the tug and free my foot. Or, if I travel to Tulum in Mexico, the plane will stop at the same airports as before. I can feel the soft water, the taste of limes. These are familiar and loved places. They have the measure of my step. I suppose from the outside it might appear that there is nothing new in my nights and days, but that isn’t true. I top a familiar rise and gasp at what is revealed. In a gathering of people I love is a subtle and profound shift that brings tears. The salmon swimming upstream to lay their eggs and die is so profound I am dizzy. Don’t get me wrong. I am glad I crossed the Nullarbor Plain before it was paved. The journey up a vine draped river in a small boat that required constant bailing is sweet memory. Crossing Mexico paying whichever group of men stopped the bus in the middle of nowhere – that memory makes me smile, too. I have sympathy for my mistakes and admiration for my courage. The point is that I no longer need novelty or living on the edge to be full. Or go deep. Or get so entranced and engaged I can barely hang onto the bit of earth beneath my feet. In fact, there is something almost psychedelic about the familiar at this depth. Yes, this is a matter of age and good fortune. But I understand what I didn’t when I was young. I know why old people sit silent at dusk in their houses. We are waiting to see who comes, or what revelation arrives. We walk in the dark to provide a canvas for conversation. To find my consciousness attached to this body, this person who has my name, blows me away. I could just as easily be in the Virgo Cluster, or one of the spirits at the center of the Milky Way, the dove on the rail of the porch, sunlight though green trees. But I am made this, placed here. It is just that "this" and "here" aren't what they once were. |
0 Comments
|
Archives
October 2017
AuthorJune O'Brien is an author of fiction, non fiction and poetry, living in the Pacific Northwest. Categories |