paseos y encuentros
I tell others and myself that I ride my bike for the exercise, but if they knew the depth of my depravity, they would know my motivations were much more gratuitous. I’ve got an addiction, and you, dear reader, are my confessor: I want to catch sunsets, gold-light-sprayed fields, miles of expanse, glowing clouds, and cows that look like black and red dots. But look too close and—as always—you’ll find something unexpected.
Yesterday I passed through a veil of scents about half a mile out. Something was blooming, spreading thick and palpable, seeking passionless asexual love, in sweet tones with a hint of metallic. If I knew scents I would describe it better—about a quarter-mile of sweet smell to send me on my way.
Two point five miles in comes the overpass where interstate 35 runs over Vermont Ave. You look over your shoulder because it always sounds like a car is coming up on you fast. It’s loud and the roar oppresses: “It sounded like a freight train!” Continuous motion: the fear of being still. For one moment, as the cars pass, I’m a part of the travels of faces I do not see, our lives intertwine at a crossroads where I’m aware of others’ existence, individuals and families, lovers and haters, all loved by God whether I call them by their first name or curse them for the air pollution. I really can’t help but be indifferent. But I am still invisible to them under the overpass; I’m simply an unknown recipient to the law of the conservation of energy. If they knew I was there, would they care? If I feel hard enough I can feel the rumble beneath my feet; but can I feel the downward flow of energy from above? That indestructible force makes its way through me, headed to China, then maybe to Jupiter, then to the Mizar star system, where one of its five suns will swallow it up and spit it out again in a million years, back to us in some cosmic game of catch, I suppose, because nothing’s going to stop it, not even the core of the world or a star—“neither height nor depth, nor anything in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Why does an overpass drive me to such musing? In the words of the psalmist, “My zeal wears me out.”
Above is usually where I find a hundred little black birds dancing around their adobe nests, their anchorite holds on vibrating concrete. They fly around under the bridge to keep from going insane I suspect. But tonight there are none but one, a baby left on the road, learning to fly under a captive audience. The tires of my bike halt within a foot of her. She crouches in fear and her fast-beating heart rocks her body forth and back. From a brown mud house comes a screech, a “NOOOO!” I push the wheels forward to get it off the road after some mutual admiration, she awing at my size, I awing at hers. She hops to the side and her flight mechanism heightens as she lets out white, but she still has no flight in her flight mechanism. I wish her well with a prayer of safety and hope God still cares more than I do in my abandonment.
Every evening, every few feet, there’s a rustle in the grass as something goes leaping for its life away from my threatening roll. Every time my head shoots in the direction of sound hoping to catch the varmint fleeing. Sometimes a pheasant flutters in front of me, but most times I have no idea what it is. One time I caught a glimpse of what looked like the form of a squirrel. On the way back home yesterday I was looking up at the fiery mid-level cumulus, alighted with tilted light that had already reached the other side of this, the first Arbuckle rise. They look like flames upside down, a lighted wisp above the mountain almost every night. I heard one of God's joyous creatures coming to greet me. The first one ever that actually came to me, and as he struck his head and shoulder from the brush my heart sank in horror. About four feet away, his black body with white head and two white stripes stretching down his sides brought memory of his smell immediately to mind. My flight mechanism kicked in and I labored uphill as fast as possible. His fight mechanism kicked in and he turned, decided against flight, and lifted his tail. I cursed and fifteen feet later I looked back to find his tail still up. I waited till it was down to press on, the thrill of narrow escape in my mouth. The cows that normally run beside me were too far away, so I had no companion to share the experience with. The cows, they chase me along the fence and watch me, not as a threat, but as a sideshow, the freak that goes on wheels with two perfectly healthy legs and often hollers at them for no apparent reason—the beast.
Nearing the top of the hill that I love to fly down going about 45 mph, I caught sight and another encounter ensued. The coyote had just crossed the road and was wistfully jogging in a clearing about twenty-five feet away, into the woods. "Hey!" I hollered. He stopped and turned, no more interested in me than if he were looking at a fly. He disinterestedly pawed at something on the ground when I yelled again. “HEY!” A whistle. He turns and trots away. I had just seen an apparition, but he had seen nothing so amazing. I keep yelling trying to get him to stop…he just goes. All encounters are fleeting.
I flew down the hill, wind-whipped and amazed.
Yesterday I passed through a veil of scents about half a mile out. Something was blooming, spreading thick and palpable, seeking passionless asexual love, in sweet tones with a hint of metallic. If I knew scents I would describe it better—about a quarter-mile of sweet smell to send me on my way.
Two point five miles in comes the overpass where interstate 35 runs over Vermont Ave. You look over your shoulder because it always sounds like a car is coming up on you fast. It’s loud and the roar oppresses: “It sounded like a freight train!” Continuous motion: the fear of being still. For one moment, as the cars pass, I’m a part of the travels of faces I do not see, our lives intertwine at a crossroads where I’m aware of others’ existence, individuals and families, lovers and haters, all loved by God whether I call them by their first name or curse them for the air pollution. I really can’t help but be indifferent. But I am still invisible to them under the overpass; I’m simply an unknown recipient to the law of the conservation of energy. If they knew I was there, would they care? If I feel hard enough I can feel the rumble beneath my feet; but can I feel the downward flow of energy from above? That indestructible force makes its way through me, headed to China, then maybe to Jupiter, then to the Mizar star system, where one of its five suns will swallow it up and spit it out again in a million years, back to us in some cosmic game of catch, I suppose, because nothing’s going to stop it, not even the core of the world or a star—“neither height nor depth, nor anything in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Why does an overpass drive me to such musing? In the words of the psalmist, “My zeal wears me out.”
Above is usually where I find a hundred little black birds dancing around their adobe nests, their anchorite holds on vibrating concrete. They fly around under the bridge to keep from going insane I suspect. But tonight there are none but one, a baby left on the road, learning to fly under a captive audience. The tires of my bike halt within a foot of her. She crouches in fear and her fast-beating heart rocks her body forth and back. From a brown mud house comes a screech, a “NOOOO!” I push the wheels forward to get it off the road after some mutual admiration, she awing at my size, I awing at hers. She hops to the side and her flight mechanism heightens as she lets out white, but she still has no flight in her flight mechanism. I wish her well with a prayer of safety and hope God still cares more than I do in my abandonment.
Every evening, every few feet, there’s a rustle in the grass as something goes leaping for its life away from my threatening roll. Every time my head shoots in the direction of sound hoping to catch the varmint fleeing. Sometimes a pheasant flutters in front of me, but most times I have no idea what it is. One time I caught a glimpse of what looked like the form of a squirrel. On the way back home yesterday I was looking up at the fiery mid-level cumulus, alighted with tilted light that had already reached the other side of this, the first Arbuckle rise. They look like flames upside down, a lighted wisp above the mountain almost every night. I heard one of God's joyous creatures coming to greet me. The first one ever that actually came to me, and as he struck his head and shoulder from the brush my heart sank in horror. About four feet away, his black body with white head and two white stripes stretching down his sides brought memory of his smell immediately to mind. My flight mechanism kicked in and I labored uphill as fast as possible. His fight mechanism kicked in and he turned, decided against flight, and lifted his tail. I cursed and fifteen feet later I looked back to find his tail still up. I waited till it was down to press on, the thrill of narrow escape in my mouth. The cows that normally run beside me were too far away, so I had no companion to share the experience with. The cows, they chase me along the fence and watch me, not as a threat, but as a sideshow, the freak that goes on wheels with two perfectly healthy legs and often hollers at them for no apparent reason—the beast.
Nearing the top of the hill that I love to fly down going about 45 mph, I caught sight and another encounter ensued. The coyote had just crossed the road and was wistfully jogging in a clearing about twenty-five feet away, into the woods. "Hey!" I hollered. He stopped and turned, no more interested in me than if he were looking at a fly. He disinterestedly pawed at something on the ground when I yelled again. “HEY!” A whistle. He turns and trots away. I had just seen an apparition, but he had seen nothing so amazing. I keep yelling trying to get him to stop…he just goes. All encounters are fleeting.
I flew down the hill, wind-whipped and amazed.
We got a bike. Notice I said a bike. Uno. We brought it home from my parents' house and it's in good shape. Perhaps we shall invest in another. Bike riding sounds good to me.
Posted by
GraceKathryn |
6:04 AM