“The house becomes unusually dark. A thunderstorm? Now there are so many calamities, it’s impossible to tease apart the man-made from the natural. But based on this rumbling, something’s clearly afoot. A few drips on corrugated roof metal, at first, then the louder pounding. “Right as rain” is a phrase i love. Not a deluge of words, but wetness in its primal form, a language rich with utterings of truth, not embellishment, or spin. Ah, here’s to the clear water strong enough, in its good purpose, to run the rapids. Not everyone has an unobstructed heart. The storm passes quickly. I think of the last dream I had, before waking. All the things almost said, and almost done. The care taken, to respect those around us, and honor good deeds done, and vows meant to be kept, in this lifetime, or beyond. Even in sleep, certain things cannot be violated, not in the deepest crevices, nor the most temping places. This should be a reassurance, to know our conscience follows us, our guiding lode star. Our intuitive magnetic north. Not everyone sees light, or knows where to find it. On some level, I give us all a pass. This is just the hardest place, to figure anything out, for sure. I myself, have stared into the great nothing, and lost. But on a good day, I drive out to do things few will ever experience. The sign says “10 mph”, and I have no reason to surpass the sign’s directive. It’s a hazy, humid morning, not far from the shores of Lake Champlain. I’m here, with my truck, to pick up a load of wood chips, the refuse of arborists, heaped up in two gigantic piles. Early enough, that the few workers dotting the landscape, are still getting oriented to the uncertain weather, how it might change their day for the worse, or, alternately, spare them. I go to the commercial shed, stepping up into the empty office, then backing out, to scan the yard. “They said they’d be back in ten”, someone says. I smile, turning to acknowledge a fellow landscaper, waiting patiently on a bench, immersed in her iPad. “It’s a beautiful place to wait”, I say, looking over at fountains of rose bushes, in full bloom. “I’ll go check the retail office”. It’s a short walk, over to the other building. There’s a sale in progress, and I dutifully browse the tools, and bags of dahlias, as they complete their business. When its my turn, and after the wood chip order is called out over walkie talkie, I return our conversation to the roses. “Do you guys do anything, you know, to make them look like that? Or is it just the lake effect?” She looks at me, happy to be asked. “I don’t directly care for them”, she says, “but I don’t think the staff has to do much. They just grow that way”. It’s a reminder that some things just grow that way. I kind of love this idea. That when you put a person in the most hospitable place imaginable, they will, without any undo ceremony, thrive and contribute every imaginable ounce of their innate beauty, without effort, or need to call attention to what it took to make them that way, to any, and every, rogue or otherwise, passerby.”
