Skimming Along The Fragile Surface

The twinkling of a billion exploding moments

Welcome to all those new subscribers that have joined, welcome, welcome, I’m so glad you’re here. And thanks to every single person who reads The Crow, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you.

OK, so, this week a delicate and mysterious little tale of small moments of huge consequence that punctuate the rhythm of things. I hope you enjoy.

Photo by Valdemaras D. on Unsplash

1.

The towering pines loom like rust and chocolate ghosts lurking in the translucent dawn light as the forest holds its breath, waiting for the moist vapour to dissipate in the early morning sun.

I’m awash with a feeling of immunity and detachment, cruising down the road, one hand nonchalantly finger-tipping the wheel, elbow on the window sill, staring at those painted white ribbons rolling ever onward.

And there you are, sitting beside me. Talking about something. It doesn’t matter what. Just that you are there. And we are driving. It’s a very late stage feeling. We are heading deep into the forest and I am a stone skimming along the fragile surface because you have thrown me and I am skimming perfectly through life.

The dog is resting his head on your shoulder. He should have a seat belt on but somehow in this cocoon of a car nothing can happen. Somehow we are separate from the world as we breeze along in our sphere of leather and plastic and dials and stories and that feeling of power and immunity and detachment and skimming.

There’s something else. A calmness. A composure. Behind us decades of life. Ahead of us maybe the same. And here we are in this car heading deep into the forest and the past is gone and the future is gone and there’s just us in this moment with our elbows on the sill and the rising sun drenching the world in light and warmth. And we, lightly skimming along like a rolling melody playing sweetly. No hunger. No fear. No lies. Just balance and trust.

We’re getting closer, we’ve hit the gravel and I’m doing 70 kph, light fingers on the wheel, peering as far around the corner as I can, estimating the bend. Long slow curves that encourage the car to gradually lift a little from the line and slide, applying a touch of power to push through and straighten the wheel. Tender and delicate forces translating through the pedals and wheel into the road and back again in reciprocating waves of information as my unconscious mind slow dances with this lunatic velocity.

There’s another 30 kilometres to go. You’re reading aloud from your phone like a Cuban cigar storyteller and from my driving trance I’m listening as the next part of the tale unfolds.

2.

Three figures in a car, racing along the snaking gravel roads through the forest. A man, a women and a dog, like a meager hunting party forging through the moss covered blue stones and towering rust and chocolate pines, the twinkling of a billion tiny shards of light bouncing off their retinas in exploding moments of a new birthed Now.

The sun peeked above the distant mountain range as the night dwellers skulked away and the creatures of the day stirred in the dawning light.

The newcomers race past the head of the ravine and looking far down the river valley toward their goal, they see a wispy spirit of smoke rising in the far forest. Their eyes met momentarily. “I don’t know, an hour maybe, could be two.” The man nodded and handed a bottle to the women who drank deeply.

And then, in rapid slow motion wrenches, like a vacuum suddenly being filled over and over again, the world imploded, as the consequences of butterfly wing driving explode all around the trio now rolling and tumbling and frozen forever in this moment, this Now. Their last.

3.

I swing the axe true and the head splits another log, then leaning forward and reaching with my left hand I twist the standing piece half a turn, take a step back and allow the axe shaft to fall through my right grip until I feel the thickening of the handle. I retighten my grip and swing the axe as my left hand joins my right at the butt of the handle and the fine-edged steel splits the wood once again with the crack of a shot. Then I reach for another log and place it on the chopping block.

But now I hesitate, and hold my breath, and allow my mind to rest and listen. There was something. I knew not what, but something.

I return to the house, toward the smell of smoke wisping from the chimney into the damp morning air. The horse nickers in greeting so I stop and nod in return, then tilt my head toward the forest and say “there’s something,” and the horse nickers in agreement and throws his head gently before leaning once more into his trough.

The front door opens and our eyes met and I smile and once more nod toward the high ravine. “There’s something,” I say. “Or someone,” you reply. “Or someone,” I say and look toward the dark forest as you come up beside me, reaching to gently entwine your fingers through mine as we stand under the slowly fading morning stars and feel the oncoming day.

I can hear a humpback whale’s wistful wailing, as if the universe were yearning and aching and creaking, the fading starlight of the early morning humming a soulful lament to time’s never ending dance, your fingers entwined in mine, trying as we might to stave off the inevitable.

“Is it time?” you ask.

“I think it’s time,” I reply.

4.

We drift deeper into the forest now, serenely lost in our own thoughts, a quietness enveloping the world. The birch and ash and oak and pine stand patiently, their shoulders to the light wind, impervious as they are to the bell and the reaper that chime out their warnings to we fleeting creatures, reminding us that although we are held together in this world by our love, we also face our eternal isolation, an ever nearing settlement of the debt we owe for being born into this sparkling and drifting moment, our sumptuous unburdening ever approaching. And then suddenly it comes. Sometimes without warning. Sometimes slowly. But always, without fail, it comes.

There’s no turning back now. The car is in flames. Burning like a giant, wild and beautiful bonfire, fueled by the powerful accelerant ejected from its guts and leaking all over the forest. This is a one way trip and we’ve passed the point of no return.

So we walk on, in single file, the dog at the head of our quiet party, leading us toward the house. I can smell the smoke, not from the car, nor from the distant fires burning on the horizon, but from the gentle hearth on the centre of the house, around which, I imagine, stories have been told and retold for millennia, stories of triumph and failure and hope and truth, stories that have driven people forward, that have encircled them and enslaved them, and stories that have freed them, released them and liberated them. Some that are lies and some that are true and only now do I know the difference.

I reach forward and take your hand in mine, and hold you for a moment, just a moment, and kiss your cheek and walk beside you and now we can see the house where there are two people standing beside a horse and beckoning us as we float toward them like ghosts in the ever expanding light.

5.

They are approaching. I see the dog first as it lopes down the path, leading the way, then the man, not so young, beside the woman, also not so young. They are here. Their time has come. The sun is high and the deep everlasting blue of all creation shines above us all.

You laugh and smile and squeeze my hand and the horse nickers and throws his head and we both now reach toward the approaching spirits and smile and open our arms.

“Look,” you say and let go of my hand to wave and beckon.

“I see,” I say and take your hand again.

“Give them time.” I say.

“They’re here now” you say.

“I guess they are” I say.

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