Alchemic Verse

Sequencing the vignettes of this time in my life is challenging, as there seems to be little coherent narrative. There are extraordinary scenes, short and vivid, that even when put chronologically tell no story. They’ll paint a landscape, or a collage of moments, gathered in the interstice between life phases. There seems to be little threading to these moments, other than curious observation.

Two Sundays past, I saw a middle-aged gent soaking sweat through his pocket-protected Sunday best, wiggling while flipping a sign – not unlike advertising for a furniture store going out of business – that read something like “GET BAPTISED.” Printed beneath the exclamation was a church org in tiny, relatively illegible letters. As I pondered from the red light across the intersection, I felt there was so much to unpack, especially the overlap of commercialism and the offering of salvation in a similar way as humanity otherwise cheaply markets a commodity. Furthermore, this was an inherently poorly chosen location for this man’s awkward, ardent dance – an intersection where traffic rarely stops long enough for anyone to read the tiny text directed to the church on the poorly-designed sign. At the green, I drove through said intersection, attempting to hide my excessive curiosity and simply hoping he would manage to stay hydrated in the extreme heat.

A different Sunday brought a scene where I stood waist deep in the warmest lakewater, arms extended diagonally from the shoulders such that my fingertips grazed the glittering surface to either side, surrounded by no fewer than two dozen dragonflies/damselflies hovering in the golden light of early morning.

After a few minutes of basking in quiet wonder, I knelt in the soft silt of the lake bed under the eyes of two buzzards who watched soberly from crooked limbs of the oldest tree near shore, witnesses to my quiet meditation, a different kind of baptism.

Another scene featured my first time avoiding a snake crossing a major road – a lithe sliver of stripey orange roiling its way across steaming asphalt between two grassy meadows. Roadkill regardless of species or my personal involvement in its demise always breaks my heart, so I checked my surroundings and carefully swerved around its path.

A few scenes have taken place in an antique shop, where an old Stetson and abalone butterfly brooch found their way home with me.

While browsing, a sweet older gent asked if something dropped had been mine – it hadn’t – and I wondered after the memory of his face over the duration of the long ride home. Why had his sad eyes flickered down repeatedly to barely meet mine? Why did he seem so startled, flinching in reaction to my polite gratitude?

I’ve been a few times now, some small sparkly treasures coming back to the docks with me; it helps fight the homesickness – albeit for a place that never felt quite like home, but in my wayward ways antique stores now offer hints of the familiar. Yesterday, by contrast, I was met with suspicion, too nice niceness, overly-affected vocal pitching, and a poignant reminder of what does and does not constitute a real welcome.

Today witnessed a hair salon scene where minds were blown – my stylist first, hearing my short-form soapbox dissertation on why there are much worse things a person can be than overweight, like cruel, willfully ignorant, or powerfully selfish. For clarity, these adjectives were in no way directed AT my stylist, but rather as examples of why she should absolutely not fret too terribly much about switching her workout schedule and getting some “cheese sticks.” My mind was blown in return, as I was informed I should make sure to stay in town until at least a seemingly-random particular date. When I inquired as to its importance, the explanations vaguely referred to half a dozen conspiracy theories ranging from the Rapture to The Great Flood Strikes Back to aliens but not, etc. NASA knows, evidently…? Or “maybe nothing will happen again.” I made a joke or two, as the lively conversation looped in a second stylist, and we all mused briefly on whether one eats food in heaven. I departed equal parts bewildered and amused, feeling tidied with a new ‘do. I’m excited to go back for a trim in anticipation of this portentous future date.

Tonight’s sunset [featured image] illuminated some of the most extraordinary if ominous clouds, and now the night is broken by sharp cracks of thunder that intermittently interrupt the dog’s quiet snores atop my stacked knees. My head is pounding with the pressure, but I still love a good thunderstorm.

I suppose the narrative is that I am coming to appreciate all that I am observing while feeling more present than ever, as well as all that I am learning about myself through the practice. Sometimes, the silence of solitary sadness threatens my spine, and sometimes it projects vignettes onto the sails, giving me a front row seat to wondrous and weird things, within and without.