Beneath the surface

I'm sitting on the back porch playing guitar in the dark. Since I can't see the music I just lean back into the white, plastic lawn chair and watch as jets float across the blue-black star-dotted sky. The air is cool and humid, and completely calm. In between songs I sit and listen to the peaceful quiet and wonder if it was worse to be shot dead by an insane stranger, or lie helpless watching life drain from a friend.

Thirty two people experienced the first, a few dozen the second, a few hundred have been touched second hand, and the remaining 259 million of us are left sitting on our back porches, wondering, watching helpless. Life is fragile. Life is short.

I think I'll go call my dad and tell him I love him.

Next stop, who knows?

I drove to Iowa to spend Easter with Andy’s family. It’s a long way. I left in the early evening after finishing my lessons, echoes of the missed notes, halting rhythms, harsh tone, and sweet young personalities occupying my mind while I crept through the North Dallas evening commuter traffic. Slow progress –my students, my life, and the traffic – is easier to bear knowing that impatience won’t speed things up, and that we will eventually arrive at our goal if we persist.

I persisted north on Highway 75 past fields overstuffed with spring growth, trying in vain to count the shades of green. So vibrant were the fields and so thin the cover of clouds that it seemed the evening was being lit by the new growth itself. It was impossible to hurry, or worry, or wonder if my life is speeding nowhere.

The Red River marked my progress into the great state of Oklahoma, where cattle stood planted in the grass, and Indian Paintbrushes danced orange above the green floor. Overhead, the clouds took on a washboard pattern, like waves in the sky and I wondered what kind of wind could make a cloud do that.

The fields slowly cooled until the great state of Oklahoma disappeared under darkness, and the only part of it I could see was the pavement beneath, and billboards floating by. Funeral homes, 24 hour dentures, and vasectomy reversals seemed to be common themes. I suppose all travelers have to deal with their worn out lives– bodies, teeth, marriages - as they persist.

I followed my headlights until my dashboard flashed yellow, advising me that I would not be able to persist very much farther without gas. A convenience store in Pryor put out the light.

Past Pryor came the snow - big white flakes streaking though the dark, like mini comets. Then, fog started to rise off the pavement; big thick banks like they make in the movies. Sometimes so much light can make it hard to see.

A new day brought new light, and as I traveled north, fields of green gave way to brown grass and flowering trees, and, further north, to dormant pre-spring. It was like traveling backwards in a “Season Time Machine.” It’s not that summer won’t arrive here, these fields just have to wait.

I stopped to visit my old schools and my friends in them. We talked about old days, new days, and days we hope to see. A good friend’s words have more impact then just words – “Persist” they said. I continued north feeling like the Indian paintbrushes dancing over the green floor in the great state of Oklahoma.

My trip odometer read 777.7 as I pulled into Darwin’s driveway to tape an interview about common friends. I took it as a sign. I had arranged the meeting at the last minute hoping this could shed light on a film project I have in mind. It did.

If you ever want to feel encouraged, energized, purposeful, go talk to Darwin, he will light you up.

And so I arrived at the home of my son in time to share of the kind of meal by which one celebrates (grilled steaks, goldfish crackers, ice cream) with the children of my child. When I finally closed my eyes on the bed which doubles as a Matchbox car roadway during the day, surrounded by crayons and very small teacups, I wondered what kind of miracle causes people to grow, even when you aren’t there.

Empty Heads, Wheat, Young People, April 1

Today is April 1. Sunday. The first of the month and the first of the week – it seems so tidy.

Did you know that the life cycle of wheat – the number of days from planting until harvest is about the same as from conception to birth of a child?

My bike ride kept me in town today, but I found myself riding by a wheat field. It reminded me of living on the plains of Western Kansas. The first time I saw wheat I thought it was grass. I was one month from graduating from CSU and Susan and I were on a job interview trip across Kansas. I kept saying, “That grass looks great. I wonder what they are going to do with all that grass.” I was so young.

Come to find out wheat is just grass with big tasty seeds. But the seed is the last thing to form. The wheat I saw today looked complete but there was no grain inside the heads. In essence what I saw today was just tall grass. It looked completely grown but there is nothing in the heads yet.

Sort of like young people.

Speaking of young people, Katy wrote today that she got a nice, new tattoo. “Pretty,” she described, and then typed the three foreign words (without translation) which composed the ink blot. Not to worry, she beamed, “I got it at a real cheap shop.”

Hmm, looks completely grown but there is nothing in the head yet.

Later, Susan, who had since emailed with our newly ornamented daughter, asked me the date. “April the first.” And then the light began to dawn.

So, there comes a point in the life cycle of wheat when the mature (translate “Old”) heads of wheat dry out. Slowly over time, the wind blows, the sun bakes, weather breaks it down, and soon what used to be in the head slowly starts to fall out….