This must be the place: ‘Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious’
The North Country Woods. Garret K. Woodward photo
Sunday. Late morning. I’m awakened by the sounds of a curious dog in my upstairs neighbor’s apartment. He’s a sweet pitbull mix. Always running around the yard, happily barking at the knowns and unknowns of this big ol’ world outside of his second story window.
Cloudy skies, grey in nature. Slight raindrops as evident from the ripples witnessed in the mud puddles outside my living room window. The fog hangs heavy over the Blue Ridge Mountains to the west. There’s people and homes and what not behind the fog and I wonder what they’ve got planned for this otherwise lazy Sunday.
There’s a fresh bag of coffee next to the pot in the kitchen, but no creamer could be found in the refrigerator. I don’t feel like going to the grocery store and going through “all that” for just creamer, so I head to a coffee shop and order a large cappuccino. I add in an “extra shot” of espresso to really kick things into gear.
Sipping the warm beverage, I wait at the traffic light to turn green. Merging back onto Russ Avenue, the vehicle in front of me has a rather interesting license plate. It states “PSLM40:2,” to which I grab for my smart phone and decide to look up the Bible Psalm at the next red light. Hovering there, I track it down.
The Psalm reads, “He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.” And according to the AI Overview from Google, “Psalm 40 can be a reminder that God holds onto us through good and bad times, and that His truth and Word will hold us until eternity.”
It’d only been my third sip of the large cappuccino (with “extra shot”) and here I was absorbing some heavy stuff for an otherwise lazy Sunday. No matter, the thoughts within my restless mind, body and soul are always vibrating on those wavelengths, whether I want to indulge in them or not (I mostly do). Sip and contemplate.
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Emerge from the truck in the slight drizzle. Gaze up at the fog overtaking the nearby peaks. Acknowledge the gloomy weather, the mysterious fog, the cold raindrops, the ancient mountains and the hot coffee with a deep, precious sense of gratitude. For don’tcha know it’s all just some wild, wondrous dream we dream?
This ain’t no rose-colored glasses. Real depth in any journey in pursuit of your true self resides in actual appreciation for any and all emotions, experiences and expressions you may encounter or immerse yourself in. The good, the bad and the ugly, as they say. I retain the same genuine awe and respect for genuine sadness as I do for jubilant happiness — in essence, it’s all one thing. Truth.
The previous two paragraphs is usually the undulating undertow of my subconscious and conscious mind. Appreciate for all things, no matter implication, interaction or interpretation. And those sentiments usually bubble up to the surface more this time of year, especially when the temperatures drop and the holiday fever is in full swing, this wild-n-out dichotomy of gloomy and glowing.
And usually ‘round Christmas, I find myself once again peeling back the pages of Jack Kerouac’s seminal 1958 novel “The Dharma Bums.” It’s the same beat-up and well-worn copy I’ve had since college. Dog-eared several times at certain points in the book I’ve always wanted to remember and recite. The copy has traveled all over America with me: in my backpack, center console of my truck or in my hands at some roadhouse diner or dive bar.
Last night (Saturday), I found myself sitting solo for dinner at Singletree Heritage Kitchen in downtown Waynesville. Crack open “The Dharma Bums” and take a slow, enjoyable sip from a glass of Pinot Noir. Order the New York strip steak (medium) with sautéed onions. Take a moment to acknowledge the gratitude to be able to afford said glass of wine, the steak and onions. Take a moment to be thankful to be standing upright and able to wander this earth.
The hub-bub of Saturday night. The whirlwind of white noise. Of voices and cutlery clanging. Of wine glasses saluting the evening. Of the impending Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve, the days immediately following each. Places to be and people to see, whether or not you’re ready to do so. It’s all so much to watch and be part of and yet so quickly fading like snowflakes on your windshield.
The white noise of life in motion as I splash my old soul with the words of the late Kerouac, “I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.”
It’s now Sunday afternoon. The raindrops have ceased, if but for a moment. Time to put on the warm running gear, waterproof jacket and lace up the shoes. Beyond that, there’s a Christmas party in town later that I was invited to attend. Put on a nice shirt and a pair of clean jeans, dust off the boots and roll right on up, diving right into the holiday spirit of compassion and camaraderie.
Tomorrow is Monday, with Tuesday being the supposed shove-off point to aim the nose of my pickup truck towards the North Country of Upstate New York, my hometown and the ruins of my youth. Memories of loved ones lost and gone. Moments yet to be shared with old friends who I’ll surely cross paths with, most likely at the Fourth Ward Club over a cold pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
My head is still held high. I remain. And so do you (and you, too).
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
