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| The letters and layers |
One sunny day, I woke up and wrote: I can’t close the door
when I’m stuck inside.
I added more words and then I put these verses to a tune. I
organized the angle and frequency that I brushed the strings, then the
placement of my fingers on the frets. I recorded the vibrations of my cords and
chords, which created a message that I replayed through my headphones a hundred
times. I believed it was true, and I then I told you.
I spent an afternoon alone by a slow-flowing stream this
summer. The rocks were too hot and the shade was too cool, so I knelt on the
beach and sank deep into the sand. I re-read your letter, and the paper was a bit damp.
Is it natural or strange; how the water deposits layer after
layer of sediment onto the shore. The sand collects here, and it represents an
accumulation of the world’s time and energy. This repeats predictably for some
time, but then the winds or season or forces alter and the layers are stripped
away (gradually or all at once, does it matter?). What then is there to verify
the work that occurred or that incident took place at all? It seems just apart
of the ebb and flow that will happen. Time ticks on, changes abound, even if
their significance isn’t apparent or welcomed.
Is it natural or strange that I process problems only when I
seek answers out of doors? That in my time on the trail I find metaphor, and
that I seek meaning where others are not certain that meaning exists?
I think when other people get lost, they make music or
poetry or art.
I do that too. I was lost that summer, and the one before.
I painted and
sketched and
sang and
wrote to you almost every day.
I read books that you recommended, and I wore your shirts.
It helped, but did not fix anything.
I’ve stopped now,
desperately renewed.
No longer enchained by the
What is? What if?
I can look up and see his coffee cup still on my desk from
this morning. Because he is here, he has found me fully in both time and space.
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