Two Years
The way I figured it, the sky would be in Raleigh by lunchtime.
Gray nimbostratus clouds marched southeast over the mountain, hurrying on to points unseen.
I paused the crunching through the icy field, looking up, casting my mind south with the wind. Humans might stop at the little hipster restaurant with painted gray block and bold fonts to nosh on BBQ sandwiches and root beer. But the sky partakes, too, mingling with the smoke and steam rising from the imagined establishment, the vinegar tang of the pickles spicing the hurrying vapor.
And then it would be south to Georgia by dinner. At another roadside joint, maybe the breeze would sigh, complaining along with the people. A good man is hard to find.
(Flannery O’Connor joke.)
The thought flickered across my mind. Is this the two year anniversary of the blog?
Inside, in the hickory warmth and drone of the fans circulating the wood stove blessings, I checked the calendar.
To the day.
The artist in C.S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce visits the outskirts of heaven, marveling at the view.
“I wish I had my things. I’d paint this.”
His angel friend tries to talk reason into him.
“You don’t need to anymore. You painted glimpses of God, but this is the real thing. You’re here.”
The artist remains unconvinced.
I crunched down through the refrozen snow and dormant hayfields to the creek, voice clear and constant even when the sun hides.
And the sun is hiding today, the landscape is a muted tone, the slow movement in a Bach concerto, the lighting of an antique photo, and what I picture the 1930’s like.
I wish I had my things. I’d write this.
The voice, the words, the descriptions, the “likes” and “as ifs” and endless parallels chatter on into infinity, a mental stream bubbling over the rocks like the creek in it’s quartz home.
If a stream runs past the sourwood and pine, cooling the feet of the mountain at August noon and burns as the flame of life in the desolation of January, and there’s not a writer around to interpret it, does it still flow?
Yes.
If you would, close your screen for a moment, and let your face feel the wind hurrying south. If that’s not practical, close your eyes and picture the face of someone you love.
That’s what I’ve been trying to say.
But who needs an interpretation of Beethoven or a wind flying to Raleigh when we’ve got the real thing.
I guess all we need to do is remember.
Go ahead.
We’ll talk next week.
(And thank you.)
-Josh