Scribbles – Safe House – 7/3/2018

Hard not to think back over the month as he takes his first step on the last mile.  It would be all too easy to dwell on the challenges – the small injuries and defeats – those things that turned hours into days and days into weeks.  They were no small part of what put him on this path – looking for greener grass – if only for a few days.

Still, starting down that last mile – it helped – helped bring to mind the fact that there had been good as well as bad – victories as well as defeats – smiles and laughter as well as worry and stress.  It was always good to get out of Chicago and get a little closer to home – not the home where he’d been born or where he’d grown up – the home where his people were – where the edges weren’t as hard, the problems receded into the background and biggest challenges amounted to almost nothing.

It was hot – even with the sun starting to fall towards the horizon – hot and wet – the kind of weather Chicagoans never stopped complaining about – where you felt the heat both inside and out and the humidity left you a bit damp all over.  For him, as he walked under the canopy created by the old oaks and their banners of spanish moss – it was a welcome feeling – heat that penetrated – got inside you – to the point where you could feel it in your lungs and your bones – a healthy feeling – physical, mental and spiritual – that slick feeling on your skin from the moisture in the air was refreshing – the warmth on his skin relaxing – it left him loose and tired in the very best of ways.

Coming to the end of the drive, he reaches The Old Man – that biggest and stoutest of the old Coast oaks – standing watch over the marsh – as it had for more than a century – anchor of the earth – connection point between soil and sky – way point for the hot and tired – playground for the young – reassurance that some things persisted in the face of all the change outside this backwater.

Stepping away and turning towards the marsh, his eye fastens on the boathouse – a transition point between solid ground and marsh – the door through which you step to trade the sober, solid, immutable power of the earth for the energetic, playful, mercurial power of the water.  Perspective shifts as he does so – trading the silence and end of day heat for the gentle refreshing breeze coming off the marsh and the subtle laughter that he hears in the gentle, wind driven chop.  The flavor of the air changes as well – subtly – or maybe he’s just more open to the salt smell coming off the marsh with the change of view – and the rich, living smell that always comes from these coastal backwaters.

Drifting past the boathouse and towards the bank – he takes one last look – pausing to watch the sun slide into the clouds on the horizon – it’s light softening – breaking into that beautiful range of pastels that signal the end of the day – an invitation to the frogs, crickets and cicada to begin their evensong.  He loses track of time – saying goodbye to the day – enjoying the breeze – feeling the temperature begin to drop just a bit – enjoying the silent fireworks of a summer twilight – feeling his head and body drift towards a more restful place – breath coming slower and deeper – finally free of the world outside of this small sanctuary.

Eventually turning away from the marsh – the dying light of day at his back – he walks back up the drive towards the house…

the gas porch lights flickering in the dusk – welcoming him home – warm, gentle eyes in the night – peace – at least for a few days – until he has to leave – head back to Chicago – and start it all over again – the better for having been reminded of the fact that there’s more to the world and to life than the challenges of the day.