I Would Walk Some Number of Miles

The trip from my hometown to my college town is a long one when driving all alone. It takes more than two and a half hours and, for a girl who's never driven that far on her own before, is extremely tedious. There were too few starry bright spots throughout the trip.

There was one, however, that sticks to my mind incessantly, though I drove here almost two weeks ago. It happened during the final leg of the journey, and I was sorely tempted to turn around and take a picture, but I didn't. I will resort to describing it through the medium of feeble words. 

First, the sky. The sky was dark. A purply, blue color, the color of an immense storm from which you cannot escape. The way the world would look always if we lived in the sea. The color of the night sky lit up by spotlights. It was huge, clouds high in the atmosphere, and towering, crawling toward the highway menacingly. A kind of storm you knew would have low thunder and the kind of lightning that is shrouded by others clouds, so you never see the line of light, only the clouds lit up subsequently. The sky takes up most of the world, here. 

Next, the land. This is farmland Missouri. Smalls hills of course grasses and tall, barley-colored stalks of something not quite wheat. It is mid-winter and the world is windy and bleak. The wind on the plains is harsh and ever-lasting, nothing to stop it or slow it down. The grass sways violently, then gently, beautiful no matter what. 

And there in the midst of all that is a large, old, gray sewer pipe, spilling out near the road. The water in its basin is still and not any specific color. The wind does not reach it because the land dips here and cups the water in a cache of soft earth and solid concrete. The grass is green. 

And there are birds. Not more than thirty, if my memory is correct. White, small (at least from where I was looking), and frenzied. They dove gracefully into the water, pecking at some small, uncatchable specimen there, taking turns of two or three at a time. They seemed to be dancing on the air, letting their bodies plummet toward the earth and arching back up in cursive motions. They were smooth and fluid, wonderfully living. If standing closer, one might have seem the fevered way in which they fought for whatever was down there in the water, but from a distance, in a silent car, the scene is beautiful beyond measure. 

And then it was past. And I thought about turning around. But what picture can do that justice? None that I could take. I drove on. 

Whether the Weather is Normal or Not

Leaves swirling. Rustling, the rattling of bones or dead flora. Curling limbs of thin, paper skin. Leaves swirling.
Sky purple. Colors bleeding into one another, a painter's paradise. The world a snow globe of cloud and sunset. Sky purple.
Wind crying. A kind of animal, primal, lovely sound, whispering in the ears of people. Plastic bags rolling in parking lots. Wind crying.
Air cool. Jacket weather that is appreciated only by those who have recently dealt with extreme's of heat or cold. Air cool.
Halloween weather. This is how I would describe it. Creepy and hauntingly beautiful. Variations in the day, strange images caught in the mind. That was today, and today is January ninth, 2009. And this... is this normal? I can't help but wonder.
I don't know much about science, or climate change, global warming. I've read a book, watched a movie, and beyond that have no interest. I do a bad job of being 'green.' I am politically conscious about a few things, but, like most people, I don't have motivation to care much beyond that. I'm a little ashamed to admit it.
There are, however, moments in my life that make me want to take action. After I finished "Field Notes from a Catastrophe" by Elizabeth Kolbert, for instance, I was ready to write letters and protest in the streets. I'm not much of a risk taker, however, and I let these feelings pass most times without much change in routine. I am slowly beginning to take more action, now. I see the world and its idiosyncrasies and I realize that things are changing, that things are wrong. I recycle more and more, and I think about this problem, and I try to think of what I can do.
And I think that must be normal. People cannot be expected to change so drastically and so suddenly as all the scientists are saying we must. The world, and by that I mean the human population within, must be given leeway time. This, of course, leaves for procrastination in humans unwilling to let go of old traditions, and really, there will be cycles beginning there that will not go well for the earth.
I watch the purple sky, leaves swirling at my feet, wind crying in my ears, air cool on my skin. I know something needs to be done to help our world and ourselves. I just don't know what it is, exactly. For now, I can try to appreciate the beauty in my life, and slowly integrate the new ways of the world into my old routines.

On Death and Holidays

Emotional Range. That shock and sadness when you recognize the reality of the situation. The headache you get from crying so much that your sinuses swell as though you're three days sick. The denial and denial and denial you feel. The way you expect to see them as you walk around the corner, in their usual spot, and happy. 

This December and two days into January, two people close to me have died. My mom's best friend, my aunt, my second-mother, Lauren. My dog, my puppy, my Buddy. Death is not something to which I am accustomed. Pets have died before. Dogs and cats, and usually that's okay. People are something different. People you do not expect to die at fifty. People you do not expect to die. 

And Lauren was healthy. Bike-riding, wine-tasting, cooking, laughing, loving Lauren. Bright colors and dreams Lauren. Animals and pictures Lauren. Caring mother and cursing friend Lauren. She was alive. Healthy and alive. 

And then she wasn't. And that was unexpected. For me, the process was surreal. I was gone, at college, when she went to the hospital. I was gone when she died. I was gone when her kids cried and needed more comfort than anyone could give. I was gone when her mother tried to believe in a miracle that everyone knew would never come. It was all described to me, in phone calls and emails. Everything real, everything not. 

I came home, with a bit of first-semester-of-college-finished glow, but mostly wet-eyed and in denial. Still. I was incapable of believing it had happened. For me, it hadn't. I wasn't sure what to do about that. The only bit of closure I could grasp was at the service they held for her. Friends and family, slideshows and speeches, and a goddamn ton of tears. 

Sometime after that, I went to their house. Tim and Lauren. The couple. That was how they were referred to; Tim and Lauren. 'We're going to Tim and Lauren's house.' Now, just Tim. 'We're going to Tim's house.' Whenever my mom said it like that, I was screaming on the inside. Wishing she could still say that second, precious name. Wishing we could hold on to that past. Knowing that we couldn't. It was Tim's house now. Tim and the kids and a few remaining memories. Ashes and sand and brightly colored bangles. 

...

It was different when Buddy died. The second I saw him, home from college over Thanksgiving break and again for Christmas, I knew the end was coming. It was expected. And that's easier, and harder. 

Easier because you can try to mentally prepare yourself, harder because that is impossible to do. Easier because the denial comes beforehand, harder because it still comes afterward. 

That denial. Tough feeling to understand. As though any feeling is easy. Denial that he's stopped breathing, even as he's in your arms. Denial that his eyes don't see you and his ears are not moving of their own, happy accord. Denial that he can't feel your tears, that he won't get up in a moment or two and lick them from your face. 

Realization. The moment when you walk around the corner from the kitchen to the living room and you expect to see him there. And he's not. And, of course, you know why, but... why not? Where is he? My puppy. 

We always called him that. Puppy. He never was a puppy with us, we got him two years into his life. But he was young, and wonderful, and happy. Mr. Buddy. He was alive. Soft and reddish-gold and handsome. Constantly ignoring the constant affection of Nina, one of our cats. She loved him. 

My holiday season. 

Good gifts, family time, friends with problems of their own. Death and sorrow, joy and laughter. Lots of emotional range.