An old metaphor

Uphill pilot, October 2008


Life's fading flames, October 2008

I set off for work in the silent dark and as the sun rose in the east, I left the highway and put myself into the sky. I saw my car rolling down an endless hill, gaining speed and catching up with the sun. Then I went back to the pavement and I felt beneath me the slow rotation of our eternal earth. Such a grand motion. I don't know why I've never felt it before, like the hidden workings of a vast clock lost for the counting of the hours.

So I chased the sun, the rotating planet propelling me forward, and by the time I reached my destination, a three-ward rehabilitation hospital nestled in the middle of a rolling prairie, I had it. The sun was mine. All around me, flooding into the windows and filling the wards and rooms with warmth, a chattering, busy joy.

Soon the day slipped by and it was time for my trip home. West this time, watching the sun move away from me as I raced along the same planetary arc. As much as I desired it, I couldn't catch the sun. I wanted it to stay with me until I was safe at home, but before I was half-way, it collided with the horizon and ignited the autumn sky. Neon pink smoke, orange fire eating away the vanishing point, and magenta-purple clouds descending to douse the flames and leave me in the dark.

It was black for the last 40 kilometers home. Stars hidden behind an invisible veil of cloud. A void of light except for the 50 feet in front of my now feeble-seeming headlights, cutting a hopelessly valiant path into the dark, like one match in a darkened stadium.

This was the same dark I started with. Empty except for my thoughts. Like a wake of words, I let them drift behind me as I slid across the land.

And I thought about Bill.

I met his son earlier in the day, squinting in the sun, and learned that Bill has been like this, the quiet type, for most of his life. Not much of a talker and not too inclined to have much get up and go. And I understood. He's no longer chasing sunsets (if he never did). He's done. He's settled down where he is and he's waiting for dark. But people like me keep coming around with hissing lanterns, prodding him from his bed and telling him he shouldn't be so depressed. He still has a lot of life to live and he should be up and enjoying it.

But this isn't what he needs. Not now. He's trying to do what he needs to do, for him. And us helpful people won't let him. Can't let him.

There's an old joke about a man in a nursing home. He keeps leaning over and someone always stops in passing to sit him back up. He leans to the right and a nurse props him up with a pillow. "You're falling over dear." Then he tries the left and a recreation therapist points his crown to the sky and smiles a cheery smile.

This goes on for days. When his son comes to visit, he says, "how's it going Pops? Are you enjoying your new home?"

Old Melvin draws himself up and gathers a great breath. "No dammit. I need to fart, but every time I lean over to work it out, someone sits me up again. I wish, they'd just let me be."

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