Goldenrod Days
“When I open my eyes, the slant of light tells me it’s not yet 6. I have a small window yet, to loiter under my blanket. It’s a worn old thing, a dusty blue polyester, not something I would have chosen, but excellent for retaining warmth, which is unpredictable during any season, here in Vermont. I close my eyes again. The design puzzles & construction questions inevitably coming for me swim in a soup of half sleep: fluid, part worry, part visionary, floating effortlessly one moment, in dream state, then not so effortlessly, as dollars meet decision making, and the weight of my future life careens forward, lurching erratically via phone call, text message, email and brief encounter, on and on, in endless hot demand. It’s what I’ve chosen. Maybe on a dare, or fueled by old resentments, or ecstatically riding on some greater, unseen wave. For now, the blanket’s warmth is an oasis of delay, of stasis, of procrastination. For I’ve always been a proponent of letting creativity have its way, no matter how slow, or jerky, or outlandish, as long as the high points respect the low points. Aim as the archer Sagittarius, towards the sky, then, as the arrow drops towards earth, be ready to make adjustments. Every blimp must be deconstructed, and replaced by a house. Each morning, as the trucks pull in, as the first workman shambles into my wood shed at 7, to plug in his extension cords, and consider his pile of boards, I’ll be fully put together, and slowly sipping strong coffee, with my doors wide open. I don’t care who thinks I’m crazy, but that’s a learned art, after many years of being forced to live outside each community I attempted to belong to. My friend Lalita the astrologer noted the chord of “discord” in my chart; that like the raven who scavenges, or the team brought in to clean up a crime scene, I’ll be showing up there, inevitably, to shift the energy and deal with the messes. Not a job description I like to advertise, but here again, donning my rubber boots bought on sale so long ago at the local farm supply, I find myself weaving my way amidst a tumble of rocks, inhospitable slopes and quicksand, untimely flash flooding, warring factions, the rising price of lumber. As every excursion demands a choice of “gap” or multiples of same, I expect to have mountains in front of me, and no easy route to achieve my heart-felt goals. As for respite from the big stuff, it helps to head out in a truck, or some vehicle likely to drop a muffler, not really knowing your route, with a half a day in your pocket. Timing isn’t always easy, on the back roads. But you’ll gravitate. And find places. I didn’t mean to, but there I was again today, hitting the same obscure stretch of Bear Swamp Rd., that I surely knew dead-ended. I could feel it, of course, that my map reading had slipped a bit, and circled me back into a cul-de-sac. So why not. The meadow grasses under Hunger Mountain, now in clustered golden rod, and altered yellows, and late summer greens, I must have needed it. Needed the tug in my chest, that aches spiritually like the incessant crush of water molecules, deep in the forest dell. What you know is there, but can’t see, but want to reach, but can’t. And it’s worth it, to glance the boundary of it, in my case, on the way to buy a picnic table. Those handy guys, this one a trucker with a bad back, recently enamored of acupuncture, who builds them to last. I came expecting to take away one, then strapped on a second. It’s the way we should do business. In the dooryard, getting the fascinating back story, appreciating the time spent. I went away happy. Got in a traffic jam on the White River for an hour. One of my favorite places, by the Sap Shack, unfortunately, a crash site. The enormous White River trying to hold us all in. Trying to soothe us while we contemplate death. And pray for the living. Or those just suddenly, gone.”