Good Blood, Bad Blood

“The future happens, no matter how much we scream.”

Derek Walcott

I meander through my days, indifferent to their purpose. I seek elusive peace. I play golf with friends. Or, I indulge in the calm and quiet of our local library. Sometimes, the Columbia River waterfront beckons. There, I mingle with the dog walkers and other solitary amblers. We exchange a brief wave or make eye contact with a head nod. Seldom, do we converse. We all go our own way full of our particular hope or worry.

Recently, following a visit to the hospital, I walked my neighborhood. Gardens droop with the advent of fall. Harvested vegetables rest in their larders. The vines of squash lay in a desiccated disarray. Their time has come and gone. Stalks of sunflowers lean from the weight of their seed laden flowers. They had leapt upwards from fertile soil amended with compost, hurtling toward the sun. Now, their cheery blooms smile down on walkers from a lofty height, backlit by the glamorous glow of autumnal light.

Autumn, my birth season, nudges summer aside. Leaves begin to accrue in the gutters. Flower beds are abandoned. Seed eating birds migrate through our latitude in search of a snack. They spread the bounty on their journey to other elsewheres. The circle of life continues.

Meanwhile, the tremors of a presidential election ripple through my subconscious. I want it to be over. The tawdry appeals of fund raising never cease. Predictive polls reveal biases. There’s no consensus as to whether truth or fantasy will prevail. The lying frustrates me. Racist dog whistles demean everyone. Politics is such an ugly game.

I find distraction in my little escapades. I turn to light fiction for a respite, mysteries and the like. And, most of all, I read poetry to keep me balanced.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry