Labor of Love Day Weekend

Labor Day of Love Weekend

I got there.
She got sick.
I took care of her.
The apartment was hot.
She is grateful.
I went home.

I have driven 52,865 miles.

I have driven 52,865 miles

I have driven 52,865 miles in 2 years and 4 months. Most of that is to and from work—54.4 miles RT. Some of it is to and from Baltimore—598 miles RT. And there have been several holiday and wedding trips to West Hartford, CT—628 miles RT. Once I drove to Maine—1121 miles RT. Sometimes I drive back to Hobart-William Smith to see my former students. Sometimes I drive back to Honeoye Falls to see old friends—37 miles RT.

Many miles. As I drive I have tried to watch where I was going, to drive carefully. I have also tried to really see what is out the window—to find what is interesting and beautiful. I have seen the run down houses and old barns covered in snow and then framed in green. I have seen traffic lights winking through the windshield wipers. I have discovered mini-pictures in my rear view mirrors—like little periscope pictures.

I have often brought my cameras with me. Sometimes I shoot on the fly with my cell phone. Is that safe? Probably not. Mostly I stop and pull over. Lately I have gone back to a scene to shoot it from different points of view—not just from my window. The problem with this is that the photographer is not part of the picture. I am not part of the world. He is an outsider. I am an outsider. Somehow that fits perfectly. Of course, I could start using a timer and jump in the shots. There’s thought.

I drive and drive. Practically zooming. Mile by mile. Minute by minute.

Soon I will shorten these necessary and unnecessary drives. Will I miss them? Will I be happier without them? Will I be happy?

I am crucified on my deck

I am crucified on my deck,
arms outstretched,
toes to the west,
watching the mothership of a grey cloud
pass overhead.

I want it to surrender,
to fall and blanket me.
I want the cool grey air
to descend as it would into a valley
Hiding me, protecting me.
A shroud of cloud.

But instead, it drifts
across the sky
in ever shifting patterns.
A loose shiftless layer of smoke
between the blue far above
and my little house below.

Instead I am left behind--
the cloud sailed by,
revealing the bright sun.
I shut my eyes
and the heat nailed me back
against the deck.

I have a storm front headache

I have a storm front headache. It is only one of a sundry of nagging little ailments that are hanging around this summer.

My radio tells me that Virgil, New York is supposed to get hit. June, July and now August--just about all of upstate New York has been hit.

My body tells me my head hurts, my heel hurts and sometimes my hip hurts. My teacher vacation is fraught with these throbs and twinges.

Apparently, the rain and the nagging little pains never end. 90 days of wet, cloudy aches speckled with drops of sunlight. Such a conundrum: exercise through the pain or don’t exercise; embrace the cool temps, put on a sweatshirt and run outside; or when the sun is out, stop dead, strip and soak up the rays. Force the body to run and jump and kick and stretch; or rest the weary bones and muscles.

The Queen Anne’s Lace is waving to me. Welcoming the storm? Or signaling danger? Who are we kidding the Queen Anne’s Lace doesn’t care. It is a pliant and patient plant. Busy undulating as the temperatures decrease and my head ache increases.

Camryn Elise arrived today.

Camryn Elise arrived today.

Camryn Elise arrived today. Although in no hurry to make our acquaintance. She is 8 lbs 6 oz 21 inches of baby girl-ness. With lots of black curls. And fingernails. And the most alert eyes. Looking, searching, studying. A serious little thing. All business.

Two big brothers and an adoring aunt. Loving parents. A chosen child. Just like her mother.

It hadn't happened for a long time

It hadn’t happened for along time. I avoid it. It’s easy to avoid. But sometimes I let it come. It was night. I had turned off the lights. But could not sleep. I gave up and sat up in the dark and looked around. And there it was. That sense that I am a being in a dark bedroom in a house on the earth floating in space. I could not separate floating in larger space from lightly floating in my body in my bedroom. There is a sense of aloneness, no an awareness of existing. Of existing in a body. An awareness of time sweeping past. Rocketing around the room and yet I am in the midst of stillness. It is not a good feeling. It is a very scary feeling. I am aware of everything around me being around me, sitting there in the darkness, two nightstands, a rocker, the dresser, the walls, knowledge of the rooms beyond. But it is all just sitting there. While I wondered where I was.

When I first had this experience, I was about 6 or 7. I remember it was afternoon and I was in my living room on Oakwood Road, sitting in an armchair, looking at my hand as if it were outside of me. I kept turning it over and back as if to check and see if I was there. Had I left my body? I was terrified. Only I could see that I was experiencing time. Only I could see that I was surrounded and all alone. Everything around me just there. Where was I?

Does anyone else go there? You can’t tell anyone, because there are no words to really explain it. So, as I walk down the street, looking the strangers who pass by, perhaps lots of people have been there too, anxious and alone. But you’d never know it. And to what end if we shared? We’d still be alone. Aware, made knowledgeable, but powerless.

Mostly I can keep it at bay with lists and tasks, goals and objectives. But I can also go there in an instant. If I want to. Just to see if I can. I am never any better or worse because of it. Well, it is a little heavy on the heart to do so. And when I come back I feel diminished.

I drive the long road home

I drive the long road home. The linked telephone poles make a fence stretching high above me on the left and the post and wire runs beside me on the right. The toasted fields in furrows chase me on one side and green fallow fields follow on the other. The road ahead is painted with a yellow stripe leading me up and down, straight and logical. It rises before me, crests, and dips. It focuses my journey forward.

I have watched the trees twig and bud and blossom as they fill out in readiness for summer. I have watched the sky evolve from white to grey to black sometimes smothered by clouds filled with rain or snow and later, cross fade into a vast and distant ceiling of blue.

I see cars and trucks, sometimes a runner or a pair of walkers, out-buildings, farms, houses, stores and gas stations—inhabited and abandoned. I try to see, really see, what is going on in the world around me as I fly by. I pay attention. I am an encapsulated voyeur.

You know what? You’re not in it. Anywhere.