This morning I dipped my hand in the restless waters of Lake Erie. Like an old friend the waves eagerly rushed to caress my outstretched fingertips.
I was back.
Many things were exactly as I had held them in fond memory – the promise of shore buried in the rubble of unimagined boulders – remnants of a long abandoned amusement park – now jealous guardians of the surf-gouged shoreline.
Looking past the beach it was easy to see where glaciers had advanced, irresistible mountains of another age. Forward they had arrogantly marched, forward, only to be halted by capricious nature, within inches of where I was standing. Now only their shadows and the myriad creatures they once held dear remain, the only notation they had ever existed at all.
It was important for me to be here. The play I’m writing deals – in part – with the blessed/cursed wanderlust that surfaces within me from time to time, fevering my imagination. Only yesterday I wrote:
“I am a presence in an imagined gypsy caravan. Like fog, we float silently through the forest gloom. Away, away, dreaming past massively aged trees – witnesses to my good and bad intentions. With each mile – each yard, each step – more of the myself I know is left behind. New valleys beckon. I am slowly rushing to quiet.”
For a long moment I'm vaguely aware that I'm holding my breath, distracted, almost crying, absorbing as much as I can. Who knows when I’ll stand here again? The illusion of fleeting peace passes over me. I tell myself that I’m being “one with nature,” and do my best to embrace all the other contrived nonsense that defines my generation.
I was back.
Many things were exactly as I had held them in fond memory – the promise of shore buried in the rubble of unimagined boulders – remnants of a long abandoned amusement park – now jealous guardians of the surf-gouged shoreline.
Looking past the beach it was easy to see where glaciers had advanced, irresistible mountains of another age. Forward they had arrogantly marched, forward, only to be halted by capricious nature, within inches of where I was standing. Now only their shadows and the myriad creatures they once held dear remain, the only notation they had ever existed at all.
It was important for me to be here. The play I’m writing deals – in part – with the blessed/cursed wanderlust that surfaces within me from time to time, fevering my imagination. Only yesterday I wrote:
“I am a presence in an imagined gypsy caravan. Like fog, we float silently through the forest gloom. Away, away, dreaming past massively aged trees – witnesses to my good and bad intentions. With each mile – each yard, each step – more of the myself I know is left behind. New valleys beckon. I am slowly rushing to quiet.”
For a long moment I'm vaguely aware that I'm holding my breath, distracted, almost crying, absorbing as much as I can. Who knows when I’ll stand here again? The illusion of fleeting peace passes over me. I tell myself that I’m being “one with nature,” and do my best to embrace all the other contrived nonsense that defines my generation.
The simple truth, and I know it, is that I’ve taken a step in a direction.
jb
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