Thomas, Part One

The entry system buzzer sounds again. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake.
“Hello?”
What’re you doing right now?
“Just got up, what do you think I’m doing? I’m lounging, reading, making coffee.”
How much?
“Half a pot — don’t like to waste it.”
And what’re you doing later?
“I don’t really know, I was leaving today open for doing some creative work. You?"
I was thinking of a story. Your work, could that be anywhere?
“Well, it’s supposed to be a great day, I thought I’d be outside,… look, what’re you driving at? And why don’t you take a walk around the block to give me a minute or two to straighten up, then I’ll buzz you in and we can talk like normal people.”
Okay, but while you’re straightening, make that half pot a full one and set the clock on the coffeemaker back to 6.
Good thing you hadn’t started it brewing it yet – just enough grounds for a full pot and some more water from the tap.
(“Didn’t you say you were going to install a water filter?”
I still have to go get that hole saw.
“You sure that this isn’t just an excuse to buy another tool you don’t really need?”
Need is such a slippery concept when it comes to the workshop…
“I see. Well, maybe you could go do that today?”
I’ll come over right after I’m done writing this.
“You’re going to write the whole thing first? How about if you did it in two parts?”
Never done that before,… though it is sort of a serial anyway,… I guess I could. Why? How soon do you need that filter?
“Hmm, well, need is such a slippery concept when it comes to the kitchen…”
I see. Well, the sooner we get started… you set the clock back yet?
“Just getting to that…”)
You push the HR- button and the LED skips back to 9. Another push and it skips back again. The third push must’ve coincided with a cloud moving across the sun by the way the light has changed. The forth push leaves it just barely light out, and the birds seem to be waking again. Distracted, you give an extra push, and it’s dark out again. You decide to leave well enough alone and leave the coffeemaker to its usual brewing work and go to watch for me from the window. The car is gone. Where? In that case, time to finish that article in the paper. Then check the coffeemaker again, says it’s 5:30 now. It’s done brewing, enough for two travel cups and the extra goes in a thermos. If it was supposed to be 6, there’s enough time to run some more water through to fill the room left in the thermos, pick out clothes for today, toss stuff in a cooler…

You’re waiting outside on the bench as I pull up at 5:55, surprising me as I get out. How’d you get ready already?
“It was nothing, just threw some stuff together, I found I had an extra hour – by the way, would you take a peek at my coffeemaker whenever you come by to do the water filter? The clock’s acting funny.”
Funny, like it displays timely puns?
“No such thing.”
Oh, come on. You don’t have any hiking shoes do you?
“Yeah, they’re upstairs.”
Well, why don’t you go get them, and I’ll get this stuff put in the car.

I get the car steered out onto the highway. There’s much to discuss: September always seems like the start of another year. The conversation starts out quick and is full of activity and business, it roils like our lives seem to. There’s planning new projects, and anticipated changes, and sharing struggles and controversies from work and the neighborhood. Outlines and lists get scribbled out. Dates get entered into the calendar. Positions get clarified, then muddied, then clarified again as the conversation trundles along like the car on these mountain roads: rising, leveling off, cutting back, circling the center, occasionally switching back, descending again, spanning some gaps, overlooking what seem quieter places, sometimes overshadowed by the terrain, sometimes breaking into the light, reaching one peak only on the way to the next. Occasional pauses to take stock of the sky and clouds. (“It’s going to be an awesome day, isn’t it?” You mean the weather? “I was talking about the weather, yes, but now that you mention it, the whole thing seems to be setting up right.” It is going good, isn’t it? “So, where are we going?” Oh, yeah, about 3 hours up the Northwestern Pike into the mountains of West Virginia; do some hiking, check out the natural world. We’ll be ending up near the Pennsylvania border, so, if you want, we could head up to Fallingwater later. “Been there, let’s try not to rush around today, sounds like we’ll be doing enough of that when we get back.” Yeah, it would be good to find some stillness; be on the lookout.)
Our first stop is just inside the park – pull over in the lot at the head of the trail that leads down to the falls. The “trail” is really more of a boardwalk. Stair after stair of descent to the base of the falls. It’s dark under the trees, and smells like the outdoors (or does it just smell like sawdust? Looks like they’ve been doing some repairs). The falls themselves are a bit of a disappointment – not much rain recently, and there’s water, to be sure, but not much of it. The size of the rocks around the spill imply a usually loud and violent falls when there’s water available. This is not what we were looking for – not merely a lack of action. Going back up the stairs only serves to reinforce both the tameness and our disappointment -- that was not worth the climb.
We head on to the parking lot at the main lodge. “Maybe we should check out what the other trails are like. What do you think?”
I was really interested in what was in that cooler. I’m hungry.
“Well, I only brought a small lunch.”
No worries, I know what we can do for dinner.
“Secrets?”
No, just alternatives, potentials.
Searching for a perfect picnic spot, we circle the grounds of the lodge and stumble upon a shuffleboard court (Court? Board? “What, are you asking me?” Seems out of place in WV. “How’s that?” Not sure exactly, it’s just so much not FL). Also out of place seem the perfect green lawn bordered by a tightly clipped boxwood hedge. Here and there on the lawn, wrought iron furniture arranged in small circles wait for a tea party to break out. Shall we, mademoiselle? “Oh, it would be tres lovely.” We adopt an attitude that is as incongruous to the setting as the tea party arrangement. The artificiality thwarts us again – this is not the place. (Although the lunch was quite good. "Thanks, just a little something I threw together")

At the lodge overlook, there’s a placard to help you identify the birds expected to be here (Dag, I should’ve brought the binoculars). Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to be the right time of day for it. The ones that are here are circling high. Sometimes they pause, letting themselves go either to the wind coming up the valley or to the thermals, and they hover.
“Uh oh.”
What?
“I think I’m stuck.”
Leaning on the rail to watch the birds, you’d let your knee slip between the balusters. They’re just tight enough to let you in and are unwilling to let your knee go. (“Don’t do it. What? “Don’t take any time drawing a parallel, don’t make an analogy or clever comment.” Would I do that? “Yes, but don’t, just get right to helping me get unstuck.”
Okay)
A little trickier than a finger trap, but with a bit of struggle and abrasion you’re able to get your knee back out.
“Good thing we didn’t both lean in.”
Yeah, being stuck is not quite the same as keeping still.
“You okay?”
Huh?
“You’re rubbing your hand there.”
Oh. Wasn’t really aware of that – I think I might have caught a splinter trying to pull the balusters apart.
“Need me to pull it out? I’ve got fingernails.”
It’s gone under the surface. Let me see if I can dig it out a bit first.
“Okay, Mr. Pocketknife.”
Who was it, Mark Twain? Something about the start of adulthood coming with the carrying of a pocketknife? I’m not sure if the prohibition on it is infantilizing, but more and more I’ve been surprised to be asked to surrender it. There, can you get a hold of the end of that with your nails? The tweezers on this thing aren’t good for much.
“Maybe, almost, stop flinching and keep still.”
It’s not easy. Ahhh, that feels better, thanks.

We head back in to the lodge for a necessary stop. I catch up with you talking to the ranger. She’s done for the day, but has stayed behind to help us pick a trail. /“Something inspiring? Well, if it was me I’d go on down to the valley view. It’s the most difficult trail, but there’s a great overlook at the end of it. Just drive down the park road and pull over on the side just before it becomes a private road.”/
We follow her directions and park behind another car on the shoulder. The entrance to the trail is not very clearly marked, but we find what must be it. It is a difficult trail too: exposed roots, rocks, sharp drops, and lots of overgrowth. We arrive at an overlook constructed similarly to the one at the lodge. Two people, sisters probably, are already here, leaning out and enjoying the view. One of them approaches with a question on her face, probably wants someone to take their picture. /“Can you help us please? My sister is stuck in the railing, we’ve been trying to get her out, but she’s just stuck.”/ We hurry over. She is really stuck, and her knee’s swollen a bit, making it impossible to work her knee back out. She’s starting to bug out about it some now too. I try to pull the balusters apart enough to make room for escape, but they’re not budging, which doesn’t do anything to calm her down. Torx screws – I’ve got a driver for that in the trunk. (“You do?” By way of coincidence, yes, I do.) I could run back up the trail and get it, be back in 30 minutes or so. Doesn’t look like I’m gonna find that perfect calm today. Maybe first, I could just try to force the screws with the Phillips head in my knife. I’d really only have to take out this one, and I bet there’d be enough give then. It makes a quarter turn about every third try, but it starts getting easier after 5 or 6 full turns, finally coming out after I’ve called it a few bad names under my breath (you don’t want to know). She’s free, and finally she relaxes. The two of them thank us about a dozen times while I’m working the screw back in, and then they head back up the trail.
The overlook is nice enough, but the railing, in addition to being dangerous, blocks too much of the view. We climb over the rail to set up on the outcropping of rock that the overlook is built on. It extends about 40 feet further out from the rail and is about 6 feet below the height of the observation deck. We share a soda, and we spread out to work sitting on the rock. I get a notebook out, but I’m too keyed up still, and easily distracted when other people show up on the deck. One of them starts to lecture us about the obvious drawbacks of falling off the rock to our deaths, but our failure to respond finally halts them. I put the notebook back in the backpack, take another drink from the soda, and lie back on the rock.
The rock feels solid and cool under me. There’s a regular light breeze sneaking through to my scalp. With my eyes closed, it’s still easy to discern where your shadow falls across me: slight chill in the shade, slight warmth in the sun. I’m drowsy – just couldn’t seem to find enough sleep this week. I’m in a lassitude – the driving and hiking have left me lax. I just realized how relaxed I could be at this moment, and let myself go, and fully exhale, and open my eyes. Cumulus, right? Dozens of ‘em spread out across a deep, light-blue sky. Dramatically lit from the side, they carry strong contrasts and shadow their neighbors as they creep across the sky.
It’s quiet, other than the fragments of conversation that float over from the observation deck. We keep an unspoken understanding: at this moment, your mere presence says more than words could carry. When I first thought of this day it seemed a gamble. There was a chance it could’ve been self-conscious and effortful. Those doubts have been put aside as the whole day has turned out calm, easy, and natural. Just like this very moment, when we are just ourselves with each other. We’ve created a spot to share our solitude intimately beyond the recognition of others passing by.
I shift a little left and right, trying to find a comfortable spot for my head on the rock. Every place I try seems to have some pointed edge. That one small detail heightens the awareness of how every other piece has fit just right today. Could it be that I only imagined you? I reach up over my head and find your shoulder. Your neck thrills and you purr to yourself as you lean slightly into the pressure. Your reaction surprises me, and the sense of surprise you bring lets me know you’re truly there.
You’re checking on me, too. You make brief illustrative comments on the work you’re doing, how the clouds keep changing the light, which keeps changing the look of the valley below. Up here, between us, there’s an intensity and a constancy that resists even the movement of the earth and the dimming of the setting sunlight. The only noticeable change up here is the coolness of the chill that shifts you closer to my warmth (no, keep working on that, I’ll get your sweater for you).
And then I finally find it, am in it, the source of stillness. Overlapping the physical space where our hands and eyes meet, and where our bodies gravitate and attract – just beyond the seen and touched, yet still within the grasp of sensation – there is a space where our complete selves intersect to define a place of stillness and peace.

“It is only when two people forget themselves in each other’s presence, that they can recognize each other.” -- Adam Phillips, Freud and the Uses of Forgetting