Day 585, February 7, 2022

 Warm and Whole

The sidewalks slick with a slurry of freezing rain, I walk in the crusty grass and call out to the students like a grumpy old man, Careful, its slippery! I can’t tell if I am yelling loudly or not loudly enough. The asphalt glistens. Perhaps this is what it is like to walk on water, equal parts marvel and equal parts tenuous fear. To fall here one might slide a long way. I once had a low speed crash on my bicycle on a sunny day, with students lolling in the grass. People came running to see if I was ok. If I am lucky and fall, no one will see the ridiculous long slippery tumble, but eventually somebody would pass by. I once crashed my Alpine slide sled on a steep banking curve, falling out and continuing down the track without my sled skinning my knees and elbows. A man passing overhead in the ski lift chairs took pity on me and managed to drop a sled off the back of his chair. But, I had lost the taste for the summer luge. I can’t remember if I managed to get the sled back in the track, but if I did, I can only imagine a slow mournful ride the rest of the way down the mountain. Each slip of the step is a reminder of our tenuous grasp on this Earth. A moment can shift the equation of friction and adhesion and suddenly one is adrift like an astronaut untethered from the space station. One can only try to maintain balance, try to embody stability, try not to flail about.

A man stands in the rain getting wetter.

Do you remember auntie’s maroon Camaro? The one uncle drove through the desert and claimed to hit a hundred and fifteen? What an American thing, to drive across the country like it is a quest, a pilgrimage, a rite of passage. Perhaps, driving across this country imbues you with a kind of knowledge, an intimacy with the landscape that is not mediated by airport terminals. It was like Smokey and the Bandit’s TransAm, that Camaro, but a little gentler. Auntie went on a date, and the man she was with kept playing David Bowie’s, “China Girl” and she got up and left. She was so angry. I had never really listened to the lyrics. I had never really listened to how horny white men talked. 

I open the door to the coop and feel under the darkness of chickens for warm and whole eggs.

A lentil soup is another wholesome meal. A pot full of simmering onions, garlic, and celery becomes intoxicating. As if the steam would lure you closer and closer until your head is nearly resting in the stainless steel of the pot. I wonder if there is still a cheery chill, like one gets as a child when there is sledding and snow balls, and cheeks and ears are numb with the cold, but the air tastes like cold well water and everything is exciting and electric. Can it still be like that and not like the Sherpa’s father who lost all but two of his fingers to frostbite? A bowl of soup is the antidote to emptiness. A bowl of soup is a hungry thing.