“The road to Hanksville is closed, on the Appalachian Gap side, for bridge repair. So I go Big Hollow, instead. Funny, how I remember stuff. Like how I donated an impressive collection of hardcover art books, to the Shaker Mountain School, when I was divesting myself of material possessions. My exploration of spirituality, and what it meant, had to be lived through action, not just clever talk, psychobabble, or the facade of meditation. Why should I be sitting on such valuable books, when young students might be imbibing their contents and making the world a better place? I’ve since heard, the school folded. So, as experiments go, mine was a fail, or possibly, a small win. Very small. What is the point of small wins, we might ask? Of symbolic actions, done desperately to prove something to oneself, that are quickly, upturned? I was in my mid-twenties at the time. Now, almost 40 years later, I’m driving up the same road. The shrubbery imposing on simple homes, the native growth of small trees, and rampant clearings, still pushing, pushing against civilized man, threatening to not be tamed, is impressive up there. It seemed wild, back then. Untraveled. Now, perhaps, it’s still remote, but targeted by forces intending to bulldoze. For cartel-size estates, & those impossibly long driveways that none of the rest of us can afford, to keep folks within an illusory safety zone of their own making. Thanks to dollars. Thanks, to inequitable distribution of wealth. But, I digress. No one makes out like a bandit in the end. The formidable energy of land, is going to outfox all of us, & swallow us. And eventually, put us in the ground. This inevitability makes me fascinated, & drawn to those who suffer to do good, after everything’s gone haywire, and slipped out of our hands. I’m poignantly aware, now, of what the lack of a smile might mean, on some faces. The tragedy I know nothing about, yet heard rumor of, that I’m feeling in my gut, as they put their bill on my kitchen table, personally delivering it. The love I can’t express, but must jam into small talk, and idle chatter, while my heart breaks in two. I will walk a mile in your shoes, whether or not you get it, that I do carry part of your load, just by witnessing you babble on about other things. I try to be interested and essentially, I am. But really, I’d rather heal us both. Like the flagmen & women, on the mountain roads being rained on, or smoking, or searching the faces of drivers they’ve captured for a moment, moving past. For the one, or two, who’re looking, I let them know, it’s us. We can share a moment, of mutual appreciation, that will never occur again. I like your willingness to stand all day; maybe you like how I carry tools in my truck bed, with a nonchalance that comes with age & experience. How many years, I’ve worked like this, because I had to. It was the only way I knew how to make money. And you do that too. Stand in the road, wondering who will try to clip you or make you scared, by driving too fast into the wrong lane for too long, intentionally, aggressively. I’ve been close to people like that. Who’ve gotten off on making me squirm and panic and feel vulnerable. So what, oh fragile lover? It’s just a dream. That shit will make you crazy, if you try to unpack it. For today, there’s more than enough gas in the truck, coffee in the travel mug, even a muffin in the cup holder. I’ll drove west to the big lake, turn right into a low-rent marina, to catch sight of a handcrafted vessel, & congratulate her builder. Stepping between rusted metal and old varnish cans, I realize I can change what I’m thinking about, stop obsessing about what’s not working, instead, park myself in front of something that is. Something ready to float, ready to pump, ready to deal with water coming on board. That’s how we fix things. If nothing else, I’ve learned to walk upstream until I find that place of calm reflection. Where the plunging water comes down, into rock basins, with clarity, with surety, with force. God, how I love that pounding, love.”
