“Water. Almost like fire, sometimes. The startling clarity, a force unending, repetitive, so sure of itself. I wish I could be like that. I’ve suffered from being unsure what I’m made of. But they don’t tell us much, next to nothing. Maybe that’s why roaming makes me feel whole, the simple of act of looking for a place, any place, that might explain why it’s so unbearably lonely to be alive. Earth to Jesus. Earth to Elvis. Earth to the former road commissioner of my town who used to stop & chat from atop his grader. Earth to feral cat, Carl. Will you come in please? I have many inner and outer friends. And as improbable as it may seem, one of them is a spring called “Lucky Seven”. I pass it every day, on my way to work. I rarely stop, but still, it gives its blessing. The same elongated stretch of forest road in rural Ripton that offers marsh marigolds in profusion, is not stingy, with its raw water. The type of person who fills up here, is shadowy and oblique, as viewed from my speeding truck. Who are they? Why do they want water, this water? They turn their backs, as I pass, intent on the bottles they are topping off. Because this random overflowing, is a condition rarely found. This intensity of roadside water, pumping off of a nondescript hill, is anything but finite. More of a national wonder than the busts of Presidents, carved on cliffs in South Dakota, for the grace of its unadulterated giving. Are we blind? I feel so embarrassed by what we US citizens consider noteworthy or laudable. To have pure drinking water like this just gushing onto the road in the middle of nowhere, is akin to the lunar landing. As the “Lucky Seven” disappears in my rear view mirror, I slow to 25 mph by the elementary school. The road feels uneasy, a bit forced, locked awkwardly to ungainly swaths of wilderness, & only provisionally devoted to human activity. Maybe we weren’t meant to be here, I think, but my will, & my truck, push forward, gas guzzling, scanning for food, and garden twine, despite “reduced hours” at one establishment, and string “not-in-stock”, at the other. I’m so hungry. I’m so hungry. I’ve tried hard to be open to what the universe is offering. Tried to gain nutrition from what they now call “food”. Tried to be enthralled & pacified by what they now call “clouds”. Tried to make peace with the destruction wrought by one, or two individuals, who ravaged “my trust”. But my particular story doesn’t count, not alone, not without other stories. For together, we make a stronghold, a fort, creatively constructed of wood scraps, and torn canvas. All our lives, individual lives lived in tents, in various states of abandonment & betrayal, as well as lives cushioned by bucket seats, by automatic windows, the kind that roll up, and roll down, that feel nothing in a spotty, spitting rain, as dust kicks up in puffs, then is pummeled into ditches by a downpour. Even five years ago, I could still find the story online, details of the “Lucky Seven”, so that I could understand. Now, in a short few years, the media has shrunk into ideological catacombs. Much truth has been removed, or pushed into archival stacks, below ground. This is why it’s so important to keep challenging everything, just like we mourn in the fall, and push back against the dying light, and feel restless, and scared, and unsure we can do it again. Will the leaves ever come back? Winter is convincing. And one must love dormancy, to live here. And believe in the ultimate resurgence, of what is true, and right, something to fight for, something to ... die for. Eventually.”
