Sunday, July 17, 2005

Rambling sure enough...

About half an hour ago, I got up from the table gorged to the point in which the act of vomiting was a welcome notion. "that's a good feeling" some would say --I'm sure you've heard it around the Thanksgiving table. I feel almost ashamed of it. It is a feeling that was a bit foreign in Russia, where people are most always capable of walking post-supper.

I walked outside and to the grain bin that provided the best perspective of the farm, where i proceeded to climb up and up to the orange and gray sky, prickled only slightly by the brightest stars and still dominated by the sun in the low western horizon. From my perch, i soaked up the sunset a while and thought of a great many things before i decided to take advantage of a rock skipping experience while i was home and light was out.

It took me about five minutes to walk to the Uncle Pink's Pond, picking up rocks along the way. I arrived with five semi-flat stones. I paused for a moment before tossing , relishing the memory of the last time I skipped rocks that still burned fresh in my mind: It was the morning after the farewell boat party in Russia --the night that i had kissed Nika, one of my Russian tutors, and we spent the rest of the night with friends as we walked hand in hand wandering the empty city. when morning arrived, we found ourselves on the banks of the Neva, sitting on the rocks that outlined the perimeter of Peter and Paul fortress. As we talked and laughed and realized the weight of the night, i skipped rocks across the Neva. That is a day that I will continue to glorify in my head each time I think of it, and remain guilt-free all the while, because it was worth it!

Tonight as the sun faded, taking the light with it, I looked at my handful of semi-flat rocks, hoped for the best, and skipped all five rather poorly --not like in Canada where the skipping rocks were abundant and our tosses would render the rocks skidding and testing the water’s cool, silky surface eight or more times before resigning into a sailor’s grave. No, this was more like in Johnson County, Georgia, where I hurriedly selected five rocks from the road (before mosquitoes had their way with me) and gave disappointing three-skip throws.

Do you ever believe things will happen just because “they’ve got to”, that somehow things will always work out for a purpose? Almost subconsciously (and some would say naively), I find myself entertaining such thoughts. Perhaps I attribute such workings to the “hand” of God.

A tremendous bearing has been on my mind lately --I have been deconstructing things that I long held as true. i am trying as of late to funnel all my beliefs into one truth that will somehow solidify what I know has to be (I know this is way too coded). But the days are moving much faster now --partially because of work --but I feel that I hardly have time to finish the thought that I wake up with. I almost feel like cursing the night when it comes so fast, or cursing my
body for demanding sleep from me. I always feel that I’ve wasted yet another day.

Yet, from every side, 24 hours is a bulk of time. If only I could focus my energies into getting the most of each minute; if only i could be permitted to leave everything and sit alone in the woods for a while, I would like to think that I would arrive at some incredible and obvious secret. Still though, I bet the days would slip away just as slyly as they always do.


Blogger Ricardo Grande said...

Maybe skipping stones is the secret. I don't think it gets better than some moments like that. Just an idea, but I like it. :)

8:11 PM  
Anonymous Uncle Jon said...

No matter where you go, there will always be a rock and a pond to skip it on. Of course, the trick is knowing when to turn it loose. When you find the right rock, it might just bring you more satisfaction to keep it in your pocket and touch it from time to time.

"When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day."

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young."
Charles Kingsley

8:28 AM  

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