The thing about life is not so much the circumstances nor the emotional reveling highs or depleting lows but rather the constant grandeur of each moment. The given, the static buzz of reality, is my dog breathing and occasionally woofing coupled by the glow of light in the distance. This place is full, filling out our imagination if only we would notice from time to time the wind, smell and taste of what it is to be human, here in the tricky business of redemption. It is not somewhere else that life happens; the past can only serve today’s sunrise and the future is presently working on itself. We inhabit an interesting moment in the landscape and fluidity of life.
I thought eagerly the other day of things I was wanting to do during the three months I have back in Michigan. Graduate school is coming to an end and a job (other than shelving books) hops up and down trying to get my attention waving arms back and forth. I felt as if these waving hands were best not to acknowledge directly. So I did something wholly unnatural. I made a list. These lists I find myself making in the heat of complacency are more like brainstorm-vomit-sections that just so happen to land on paper. I tell myself I need to get something done, to be a productive person, that is, and then I proceed to project wants and deep desires, leaving out of course the things I actually need to begin that day. In panic I escape the moment to some safe mirage of mind which mingles with tomorrows forecast. Being in Michigan without a car, however, has me with a watchful eye on the forecasts.
These projections are what I intend to chase in my writing the next few months, coupled with some biblical reflections in Deuteronomy, Jeremiah, Luke and 1 Peter. When minds wonder they are attempting to concretize reality into dimensions that make sense of the life that is happening. Often when I write I am abstracting life to universalize the whole thing into something that makes sense to everyone. I find myself lost in thought and in a sort of masturbation of mind rather than describing reality well and honestly. I’ve been reading Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek alongside one of my favorites, Walden. What these two writers do so well, I think, is that they live well—connected to the ground, rooted in place and attentive to the texture of their worlds. The place I grew up is near to Plaster Creek, I can just about see it from where I sit. It is a kind of runoff stream that creeps through Grand Rapids and I know the thing like the back of my hand. I remember ditching off after school and following the creek further and further each time I would return. A friend told me once that he and his brother went past Division St and almost got caught under the bridge. The next week I went off on my own about a quarter mile past the bridge—I didn’t dare go further by myself, who knew what could happen!?! The next week we planned a bit of an expedition down the creek deep in to GRap. It’s this pushing out further and carefully that I respect of those who live well in place, who take time to notice and master the art of the mundane happenings of home.
And so, I’m looking these days, taking ground samples and the lot, so that I might see this place anew. What helps is that so much has changed, people have moved, everything seems in an odd place—like a tilted frame—and time feels older and more patient. The scenes are drawn in sharp contrast to what I have known and I notice them drawing out fear, ache and joy deep in me as I look, this way and that, to the end of the street and further in concentric circles I map the texture and contours of life. As Ellery has put it, “ to the life that’s just beyond this small perimeter of me.”
