Perspective

The phone rang. I nearly didn’t answer having worked so many hours in the last few weeks I could hardly sit up. For some reason, my hand reached out and I was surprised to see my childhood friend’s mother appear on the caller ID. “Hello?” Her voice was quiet. “Hi, how are you?” “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I ticked through all of the thoughts I have had about this friend in the last week who I haven’t spoken to since April. This very afternoon, the thought to call her crossed my mind but I put it away. Now her mother was on the phone telling me that she was on a ventilator, unable to breathe for herself and that she was dying.

All of my frivolous thoughts of my insane project and trying to find a place to live in California were immediately placed into perspective. Her two children will be left without a mother.

I hung up. I went outside. I rode my bike past mailboxes, gardens, couples walking dogs, children playing tennis, rusted wheelbarrows, rose bushes and antique trucks. The sky was coral and purple. The grass a vivid green.

I am alive. The world is beautiful. I wish my friend would wake up, but that might not happen.

Poor Judgment

Confession: Just when you thought you knew me, the following happened…(I think it was mostly because of the conversation that preceded it). Here is a brief rundown:

P.A.: (as we drive past the “point of the mountain”) Want to eat at the prison?
Me: HaHa.
P.A.: No, really I hear there is a restaurant outside for visitors called something like, Behind Bars.
Me: Really? I SO want to go! We should find our next location first then come back.*

We kept driving. After finding the next location, we didn’t have time to go very far and the only two restaurants near us were fast food and this hybrid Mexican and Italian restaurant meaning they served both varieties in their blandest form. I should have known it would be terrible for the following reasons:

1. It had “MEXITALY” written on the window. This could have been fun and funky fusion food but I should have remembered that I live in Utah and we thrive on mediocrity. Food is no exception.

2. The catering trailer said it was, “Voted #1 in Utah.” Voted number one in what? Uninspired cuisine? Poor decorations? Best cat meat?

3. Excitement of locations or weird names messed up my judgment. *Refer to conversation above.

Experience: Wanted to spew it out of my mouth. Gross.

Lesson Learned: When in doubt, go to Wendy’s. “MexiItaly” cuisine is ALWAYS a mistake.

Roam

The hinges squeaked as I pressed the front door open and twilight spilled into the house and across my face. The door shut behind and I hardly noticed my own steps into the silhouette and shadow of suburbia. Fences, trees, abandoned play sets, were painted blue by evening’s brush. Quiet surrounded me, only broken from time to time by the hum of a dark contour with headlights. I could hardly stay in my skin so I pushed my feet in front of each other as the moon showed its partially masked face. I ran my fingers through my hair and held the back of my head, a character in some Antonioni picture, wandering.

Windows and streetlights revealed glimpses into the night. An empty kitchen and a couple talking in the room beyond. A child with a bulldog tugging toward the street. A glowing television with an invisible audience.

The energy of life coursed through my body and brain. I want to be close but push kindness to a safe arm’s length. When my circuitry feels broken sometimes a constitutional to no particular place at all is the only thing that can help create order.

Song of Tending Land

Yesterday I woke up early, slipped on my sandals and stepped out into the wet grass behind my house. The air was frosty. Flecks of light tripped over the mountains and through the oaks then hovered over my patch of dirt without touching it. An ancient shovel, a tool that had floated through every garage adjacent to every family home we have occupied, sat next to the plot. Stately, it stood as a symbol of simple strength having dug up a good section of lawn for the purpose of planting vegetables. The bit of earth represented hours ticked away and green leaves of paper traded for delicate leaves of flora.

Transfixed by the garden, my feet did not move but my mind began to dance. I stared at the soil, considering the potential for life and food before me.

The satisfaction of working in the ground is written in my bones. I imagine my ancestors trying to coax verdure out of dust and my chest is filled with respect for those persons that turned clay into loam and seeds into sustenance. If I were wearing a hat I would remove it and press it to my chest. Hand over my heart, listening to the gentle song of those tending the primitive land.