ON THE BLUFF

ON THE BLUFF

I

            To my left and high above me, the Spanish moss wave from the cruise ship. “Farewell,” they cry to me while they laugh and twitter among themselves. They seem nervous, afraid of what I, untethered will do. Perhaps it is I who is on the cruise ship, leaving them to sail away to salty adventures on a green gray sea of possibility.

            They are jealous of my freedom. I envy their playfulness in the safety of their easy friendship and community. But I need a solitude they never enjoy. Still, their song wafts through the breeze to harmonize with mine. They are the strings to my brass, the tenors and sopranos to my alto. As I sail away, I make a vinyl recording in my heart of our concert to comfort me on gale-swept waves.

II

            Aloft in front of me, another tribe of Spanish moss dances in the breeze. They are a class of children untrained and exuberant, each dancing to her own song. Their recital demonstrates no unified rhyme or rhythm, only joy unfettered. Each tendril shows off for me, coveting my attention, waving to my heart. In my mind I applaud for each one, celebrating their innocence and imagination. They do not yet know judgment or disapproval. Delight fills their souls and they dance and sing unaware of rules and expectations. I will not intrude.

III

            To my right, hangs a chimpanzee, formed of clumping Spanish moss. Dangling by one arm, he motions to me with the other, an invitation to join him. But alas, my feet are firmly dug in, my days of climbing many years behind me.

            Next to him on another limb, hangs a sloth, barely moving despite the strength of the wind stirring the other mossy animals. A lion with a great mane languishes on yet another branch, peacefully digesting a gazelle which had stumbled and fallen. Satiated, he is no threat to me as I imagine I can hear him purr.

IV

            Beyond them and crowded together, sit rows of clerk-typists, fingers flying furiously across keys. So much work to be done, no time for foolish fun. Their brows furrow with uniform intensity as they race to meet deadlines decided for them. Hush that singing, cease that dancing. Too much to do, no time for foolishness.

            Are they driven or ambitious or trapped by guilt or duty? They make me sad. I leave them to their incessant industry.

            Me? I return to dancing, singing and sailing. The live oak leaves clap at my decision.

V

            On the ground lays a clump of Spanish moss. Brown, dead strands wind through hay-green fibers still clinging to life. Motionless, until I retrieve it, the moss stirs. Had the live oak expelled it for introducing death?  Had it floated on a breeze, deceived into believing freedom was to be found in leaving the community?  Or dying, did it hurl itself to the ground to end the pain quickly? In death, did it find an answer?

RETURN TO THE BLUFF

            The bluff is alive again today, so different from a week ago when I sat here. It has new stories to tell. I listen with my heart and see with my soul.

            Under the canopy of green, I sit staring at the blue sea of sky. She is happy, singing of cumulus clouds and cardinals. Her smile peeks through the branches and invites me to joy. I smile in reply and hum “Shoo, fly, don’t bother me,” as it pops from my childhood memory box.

            As the sky and I sing together, I notice that all the life I saw last week in the Spanish moss has disappeared just as the breeze has dissipated.  A breath of air whispers through the languid stirrings of green. The moss is lazy today with no waving, dancing or typing. The chimpanzee has disappeared entirely. I fear she lays on the grass in a rumpled pile, still clinging to a branch snapped off by a recent storm.

            In my mind I see her as sign of all the species which are being hurled toward extinction by human selfishness. The lion, too, has digested its prey and vanished. I hope he is on the prowl again.

            Today I notice the leaves of the live oak, renewed by the rains, the same rains that pummeled the moss into submission. But the leaves are hardy, now a richer green. I am always surprised when I discover that blessings for some are curses for others.

            I hear birds singing, but I cannot see them. Several different kinds must be hiding in the branches as a variety of melodies poke their notes through the thick, humid air. In my imagination, the leaves themselves are singing harmony, singing life, singing hope and possibilities.

            This tree is old, tall and stately. The bark has deep furrows, reminding me of the cracked, dry skin on my own arms. Do trees get psoriasis? We are both aging, she more gracefully than I.

            Draped in boas of Spanish moss, coifed in spring green curls of leafy playfulness, she looks as if she has stepped out of “The Great Gatsby.”  Looking ready to dance the Charleston, she stands, her long, slender fingers lightly grasping a cigarette holder where a wisp of Spanish moss smoke swirls enticingly.  Aloof she is, unaware of my presence, gossiping with the O’Hara sisters of Atlanta. (“Gatsby” meets “Gone with the Wind”. Indeed. Fascinated, I eavesdrop. But I will not share their secrets. A lady never tells.