I headed out with my story tucked into my hand
But the wind in the leaves told me I didn't need it
So I left my headphones behind
And chose instead the dialogue between the panoramic hissing of tree-walls
(is a cathedral anything more than a forest-replica of stone?)
birds, bugs, humans, dogs
and my own breath, crunching of limestone under feet, heartbeat.

The path, so tranquil
yet swarmed with a crashing wave of life
The turtle making its way up to the edge of the trail
only the closest herald of millions of strugglings all around me
In sound and movement, all around me the successes
in stillness and silence the inevitable failings.

Along a north-facing tree-wall on the edge of a clearing,
a part of the forest made into a regular home by the bright blue buntings
In my short time spent getting to know this place,
they've become a welcome part of the landscape, a seasonal visitor
(more likely I'm the visitor to their home)
I wonder how they regard me,
this great, red-capped, blue-clad creature
like some bluebird-god who walks the edges of their land
with no flight, no song.

Out here I'm no trouble.
Out here my empty hand wants to be sought out, but
is happy to not be holding anyone
where they don't want to be.
Out here there's no one to disappoint.

An older man and woman,
he thin and careful of movement, tanned, balding, bespectacled, quiet of voice
she heavier, a shock of white curls crowning her head, yet bright in eye
and clear and ringing in voice
spend the time I run more than three miles
walking slowly, carefully, methodically within a circle of a dozen yards.
They move carefully, respectfully, agog
pausing at bloom, leaf, stem,
considering, sharing, smelling, relishing
finding joy in things as they are.

A simple, plain white canvas bag is slung over his shoulder
It looks old but cared for
cut like a backpack, with thin straps and a one-button flap over the top opening
only the words "Save a tree" printed on the back of it.
In that small thing is a simplicity, an innocence, a clarity
it strikes me as a landmark of an earlier part of the journey
when we knew enough.

We know too much now.
We are spoiled, cynical, ruined.
Across our digital threshold are infinite possibilities
and no humanity.
We struggled with our heavy plastic boxes, flickering displays, tape reels
We cobbled together life out of voltages and filters
And finally achieved our goal when our creation could do anything
without moving at all.
I can do anything with these tools, yet none of it feels real anymore.

There is no place for this in this world.
And so I keep going back to the cathedral
and hope I'll understand
what its voice is telling me.

Labels: Poems, Ruminations, Running