TWO DAYS, TWO EXPERIENCES

Yesterday, I found myself in a writing mode. I took my journal and a book with me to a restaurant. Usually, I don’t write while I eat, but I remembered a moment from my years in college and wanted to put it down on paper. I kept writing, even when I was trying to eat wings and blue cheese. A storm came up and the rain poured for a short time. When I finished, I walked along the waterfront park by the river. Sitting on a bench, I began writing what I was seeing. These 2 short essays are the products of the day. I hope you can, in some way, see what I was seeing as I wrote.

HARPUR – I WAS THE GROUND

There was a night, my sophomore year at Harpur, that I walked out of my dorm and started down the hill. I was going no place in particular. That in itself was unusual. I only walked to get somewhere.

But that evening, dusk deepening, I felt lost and meandered into the trees. It might have been November or maybe October. The air was whispering snow, but only autumn leftovers were on the ground. Dried orange and yellow desiccated leaves crunched beneath my feet.

I became aware of speckles of snow dotting my glasses. As I looked through the canopy of barren branches, I saw the moon beginning to crouch behind the clouds. The stars drew back, but still sparkled as the snow became firmer, more intentional. At first, the ground quickly swallowed the flakes with her warmth. I was glad I had worn my heavy watch cap and warm gloves. The temperature was rapidly descending. I could see the frosting up of my breath. If I had spoken, I may have been able to see the words. Eternity sped by and was nearing its end, swallowing up the moment. Since I was nowhere in particular, I lay down, wondering what the ground must feel like as it was covered by the frigid virgin snow. As I lay there, arms extended loosely by my side, I could see the snow begin to drape my royal blue jacket. Because of my glasses, I the ground, could see what it was like to go slowly blind, as first, droplets clouded my view like cataracts, then flakes congealed on the lenses and obscured my view.

I felt myself drifting off to sleep, cold and content. I was no longer me. I was the ground, one with the tree, the snow, the leaves. I was every thing. I was no thing. I was. I was alive and I belonged in this moment.

Eventually, I was seized by a shiver that started at my fingers and moved up to my chest. My toes were numb, I realized. My reverie burst into an awareness that I was freezing.

I lingered a moment before sitting up. I was aware my jeans were wet. I wondered if the ground was aware that summer’s heat and autumn’s dryness were speeding away, unable to shake the bitterness to come.

I stood and I looked around at the remnants of dirt, leaves and grass around me. Then I brushed the snow off my clothes and wriggled my fingers inside the gloves. As I climbed the hill back to the light and warmth of the dorm, I remembered: winters are long in Binghamton.

A DAY AT THE WATERFRONT PARK

The clouds balled up like fists and pelted the strollers with needles of rain. People scurried to find shelter. Sheets of water raced across the pavement, soaking benches, walkways, and uncovered heads. The winds drove the rains across the river to burst against the cement barricades and splash the sidewalk and benches.

10 minutes. Maybe 12. The rain stopped, blown out of town by a relentless fury of cooler air. The sun darted out and lit up the sky saying, “This is my town. No room for storms today.”

As I sit here on a park bench too big for my short legs, I watch the water, waves racing to the wall.   When I sat down to expose myself to the shining vitamin D in the sky, 20 minutes after the downpour, the bench was already dry. Several people are sitting on the swings, feeling for a few minutes like children on the first day of spring. I, in turn, kick my legs back and forth because they do not reach the ground.

Some of the trees are bending over backward, conceding the power of the thundering wind. The sound reminds me of the roar of a seashell held to my ear. As strong as it is, I think it is playful today rather than angry, encouraging the leaves to titter with the latest gossip.

It is an afternoon for smiling. The sea is rumbling strongly, but safely contained… for now. The water is a battleship gray, darker where the clouds shadow it from the sun. Five horizontal lines of cloud hang over the swing bridge. Maybe they are the musical staff on which God is composing today’s symphony.

A solitary unseen bird scolds occasionally from a nearby perch. One small bird, flying low over the waves, was startled by a sudden white-tipped peak that sprayed its wings.

There is a light mist in the distance giving Lady’s Island a mysterious, almost ghostly appearance. In an adventurous corner of my mind, I can imagine sailing a skiff across the river to look for pirate treasure or the secret burial site of an extinct tribe.

The boats are all deserted today, sails rolled up tightly, sitting snugly at anchor. I wonder if they are missing the excitement of feeling the wind launch them up the channel or riding the waters like a cowboy on an unbroken horse.

I smile at a woman as she walks by and she returns the smile. A few minutes later, she walks back and stops. “What are you writing?” she asks.

I answer, “All of this,” and sweep my hand across in front of me.

The petite woman in white and I talk for a few moments. When she asks what I did for a living, I tell her I was a pastor. She tells me that she is a psychic. We were enjoying the back and forth until her no nonsense sister walked up and asked what she was doing. She looks like a woman on a mission. She dismisses me with a nod and asks her sister which way she was walking. The psychic and I smile as she turns and walks away with her sister, who might have been her twin. I’m sorry she had to leave. I enjoy conversations with strangers and I had never met a psychic before. Such encounters have, on occasion, led to new insights and adventures. I return to my journal and allow the sun to warm my face.

As I write, I discover that the picture I have painted with my words is as vivid and permanent as the paintings and photos I see in the nearby galleries. The scene is engraved in the album I keep in my mind. I thank God for giving me words: endless, ordinary, exotic, nuanced words to color my world, tickle my imagination, and enjoy the majesty of creation.