Observing Observing

Do ants ever gather at the end of a long day, kick back on the anthill, and stare up into the near abyss of the forest canopy?

I dunno, man, there’s got to be more to life than Queenie.

With a few more cells and no exoskeletons, a bunch of us gathered at the Peaks of Otter last weekend to do practically the same.

The Perseid meteor shower was expected, the skies were clear, and we all stared across infinity towards the galactic center. The Milky Way looked like faint smoke, and Sharptop mountain a volcano.

Things wound down, and I was almost ready to pack up the scope. The lodge staff stopped by for a look through the scope. “Step right up, you’ll love it! Look right in the eyepiece there.”

The Wild Duck cluster dazzled, an innumerable flock of stars following a leader, winging across the static of deep space. The Lagoon nebula glowed, a stellar factory, forging legends in molecular clouds. Ah! The streak of a meteor.

Then another pal wandered by, and we started tackling the big (for earth) issues.

The hour grew late, but still we talked, looking across the deep. “What do you think of that American Revival idea I keep kicking around?”

We got into that, but something strange happened. I got snagged by one of my own ideas, something from the Culture Wars.

I fixated on it, and tore my gaze away from the heavens, bringing it back to the lakeside grass, intent on making sure that I sounded right.

(The conversation was a valued one, because we were aligned enough to be progressing, but different enough to be productive.)

I knew it was happening at the time, but dimly. In retrospect, I’m still puzzling over it, this movement from a wide perspective, to the tunnel vision of needing to be right. (And is the antidote to shift the gaze, both inner and outer?)

I once had a dream that I asked one of my guitar heroes for business advice. Staying on the current track, if I’d ever meet Jesus, seems like I’d ask him about footwear.

Well, that’s not good. But I sure am glad to figure it out while there’s still time to fix it.

The mountain lake sat still and green the next day. The sweet autumn clematis put out an early bloom, and a dogwood tree by the shore showed the first thoughts of ignition. The wilds know: it’s Late Summer. Someone had planted apple trees a long time ago, before this was a park. The fruit is nearly ripe. There’s a sadness in the air, if trees can be sad, and a melancholy mixed with gratitude in the buzzing of the wild bees that visit the mint. Maybe it’s me, or maybe they treasure the bounty of the sun, too. There’s one spring that feeds the lake, winding through a thicket of willow saplings and flowers that stretch beyond the reach of the mower. It laughs to itself, hidden. I stopped and listened to it. All things must pass, and all things will change, but will we notice?

I drove back down to civilization, feeling like the ending of The Dharma Bums, going back to the world, to see better.

-Josh

Looking east towards Long Mountain, almost lost in the haze.