A work in progress

Clearly what I've been writing about has very little to do with The South and more to do with me and what I've been experiencing lately, so I apologize for being misleading. Whether or not I ever have anything to say about it is yet to be known, but in the meantime, here are some more thoughts:

Road kill around these parts is a whole ‘nother ball game than what I’m used to. To date, I have laid eyes upon/added insult to injury to a hog, raccoons, possums, and I’ve even seen a blue-eyed dog bloodying his snout in the fresh carcass of what appeared to be a fox. And the squirrels, oh, the squirrels. Their remains—in various stages of decomposition---could certainly substitute for street signs around here. “Take a left at the flattened squirrel, go down a few blocks and you’ll see a squirrel on it’s stomach with his face up, and right after that you’re going to want to take another left. When you reach the one that’s still oozing, you’re real close to where you wanna be.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am adjusting to the pockets of darkness that—in their vast nothingness---border my warm and well-lighted paths, and echo down into my imagination.

Stop sign.

Look left.

Look right.

Nothing but emptiness on either side.

If I turn,

Will my car sail into the atmosphere, float into another universe, thud upon the moon?

Will the handsome pines suction me up in one swift vacuuming, regurgitating my pulped flesh and the steely shreds of my car into the night, left to the bears?

Is there a lone, grisly, flannelled mountain man lurching in the void, waiting for a young woman to hit him, at which point she’ll have to stop and see how he’s doing, at which point he’ll reveal the lethal hook that replaces his left hand, at which point she’ll scream but at which point it will be too late…?

Will a two-ton tractor and its driver—who forgot to turn on the headlights---pummel over me and my little four-door sedan, leaving a dinging pancake of metal and a nest of highlighted blonde hair?

Or, will I hold my breath,

Close my eyes,

and

slip

into

the

darkness.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Abe is from Sudan. His skin is the rich color of coffee. His smile consumes his face, and his small eyes crinkle at the edges where they meet the fine lines of skinny scars. His laugh is joyful bordering on maniacal, but it is contagious. His English, even after 10 years of living in America, often comes together in broken bits and pieces, tinkering along in the cadence of his native language, Dinka.

Abe wears the Kanuga uniform: khakis, hunter green polo, comfortable, outdoorsy shoes, a crooked nametag. But he stands out. He opens doors, looks people in the eye, starts a roaring fire with ease, can carry more weight than it looks like he should be able to, engages with every child he crosses, touches people on the back when he’s talking to them, and liked George W. Bush as a president. I’ve only spent about 12 hours with him since we first met, but he makes me feel safe.

It is natural to think of Abe as being happy. His smile comes easily and is almost always accompanied by that distinct giggle. He works efficiently and energetically and without complaint. He is very well liked. But somewhere deep beneath the surface are the shadows of a darker time. Look deeply into his face, and it is hard not to see the leaping flames of an outdoor fire, the dusty, hardened feet of the tribal people, and cords of scars laid deep in the name of tradition and of violence.

One day while we worked together I asked Abe if he would say something in DInka, and, under the sudden spotlight, he laughed a little nervously and seemed apprehensive. We crunched along the gravelly Kanuga paths beneath the Hemlocks, which drooped under the intensity of their green and wrapped us in their cool wisdom, and Abe thought about what he might say. The sun slipped into grey and, for the first time at Kanuga, I spotted an obtrusive black crow weighing down the branch of a pine tree. The large bird seemed out of place, and he stared at us as we passed, cawing in warning.

Finally, with his voice soft and suddenly shy, Abe said “This is a song we sing at church.” In a hushed voice, almost a whisper, he began. The words braided together as if from a wooden flute, reverberating in a hollow place, achingly tender and haunting. On top of his notes, we were transported somewhere raw and private, he in his memories, and I in my heart.

At the end of the path he finished his song and looked at me. I asked him what the song was about, and he said “It’s about Christ. How he was nailed to the cross and sheds his blood on us.”

Later in the day, Abe and I and another coworker killed some time in the lobby, relaxing on the couches. Two of us joked and laughed loudly while Abe leaned his head on his hands and shut his eyes. When the time came to get back to work, I said “Ready, Abe?” He didn’t respond. I called his name louder, and he startled, popping his head up and looking at me with blinking eyes.

“I was back at home for a second,” he said. “I went back home.”

-------------------------------------------

I just came from a walk around the lake. No Jason, no Riley, just me. I tried to capture the colors of the leaves, and although I probably didn’t get any shots truly worth sharing, I experienced their radiance in new ways. As I approached our little turn-off, I smelled Larry’s outdoor fire going and, from somewhere, a spicy thread of cinnamon. Trees and shrubs shaded the path from both sides, and the air was cool and dank and encompassing. My mind was quiet and I gave in to my surroundings, joining the stillness and for a moment—was—right where I was.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There is so much space here, so much darkness and quietude. I’m mad at myself for feeling spooked by it, and for constantly wanting to find the light or the voices or the ticking of a clock to keep me company. What am I so afraid of? Ghosts? Mass murderers? Or what I might hear if I fully listened to the clattering in my head?

What will I find if I open up to the emptiness, still my thoughts, and breathe in. And out. And in again?

Is that what scares me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
leaning over the gnarled, wooden railing of the little bridge, I stared into the rushing water and was caught in its current, swept backward into memories of other swiftly moving streams, forward through flickering visions of the future, children laughing, splashing, thrilling in the cold, wrinkled hands held tight, a breeze rustling, catching hearts, feet dangling, a forever romance, coming and going, a glimpse of eternity, spotted from a slatted forest bridge
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One of my favorite things that some of the people around her say is “hain’t.” For example: “I hain’t seen her in a coon’s age.”

I’m going to practice and see if I can pull it off.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The other night I waited in my car to pick Jason up from work, and as I watched the world around me I felt at the heart of a small-town vignette, softened by the pastel hues of dusk: an aproned young woman sweeping up at the end of her shift at the bakery; an elderly couple in wooly coats and each other’s arms, trudging slowly up hill; storefronts glowing warmly. It was cozy, slow, simple. I saw some of the local characters I was coming to recognize, including the town crazy on his bumper-stickered bicycle, waving to everybody. There was the owner of the coffee shop, in his trademark black beret and sagging expression, ambling along. A gentleman in suspenders dropped several envelopes into the big blue mailbox, and a teenaged boy pulled the red and white striped umbrellas from the outdoor tables at Mike’s Diner.

No one noticed me or saw me see them, and I reveled in my position at the center of the universe.

A car whisked by, and in its wake left a dancing collection of crunchy fall leaves, twirling up into the evening and celebrating the joy found in such simplicity.