“I worked my day shift at the top of the valley, where the two dirt roads converge. Monarch Hill and Spring roads in Tunbridge, a neighborhood so full of character; I won’t easily let it go. Frank, age 92, made an offer. “Sometime if you’re not busy ... but I know you’re busy ... I could take you to the height of the land to some of my favorite places.” I had given him a copy of my poetry book, and he must have quickly figured what kind of hidden locations I like to ferret out. I replied “Yes, I would love to.” He said “Well, I’ll let you get back to your work”. There wasn’t much else to say, until we seize that chance to venture into the backcountry on his property. Frank’s still got a couple horses, a love going back to when he rode in the 1956 Olympics. I don’t think I’ll get to meet all the amazing folks in this town, it just happens by accident sometimes, though I wish it could be more systematic. Being single, and shy, can be like that. You forget how to bridge your isolation, in any socially acceptable way. But again, things will drop in your lap. Like my friends here, in the photo. You’ll have to push through a few mind bending traps, unravel the rural trailer homes that seem all connected in one swooping swath of industrious homesteading, pass the plethora of false driveways that go nowhere in an upward climb of dead ended-ness. You won’t have a huge amount of confidence, until you arrive. If she’s not there to meet you, she’s likely in the back holding a baby, or clipping spent Datura. Her green byways and wooden walkways track a long history of care. The water snakes and burbles, below an embankment of wild vines, fern & lily, so steeply incised into the cleft, that one can only understand it as holy. For those forever out-of-place, churning with creative fervor that nearly defeats the cause, here is heaven. For a slice of a night. As time takes away light, and twilight falls criss-crossing the edges of the village, demanding that the most fruitful ones, recede. For truth is a slippery commodity. If we don’t work harder to dispel our sleepy status quo assumptions, certain things will pass us by. Not a comfortable time, by any stretch, for the diggers who have paid their dues, nor for the groggy, half conscious beings who long to go back into slumber. If I could, I would wrap myself inside the blossom of the most mysterious flower, in Susan’s garden. Within those blessed walls, the collectors & receptors of thunder and ancient sound replenish their bells. You don’t stumble in, you get lifted. The lanterns are lit, the smells of fresh food and a fire bring you into a place of self acceptance no one can ever deny. The beeswax, the frittata, the flutes of bubbly liquid. The council of elders provide, and will keep doing so. Even as the lovely, younger people float and shift, deny and bless, laugh and drink, with a perspective that so much needs ours to be whole.”
