log-a-rhythm seventeen

I fancy that a stick is a symbol for the Detachment of a dog. If not for domestication, the dog would have no significant interest in just a stick. Yet in times of abundant leisure, a stick provides some interest as a toy. Now, clearly humans too would have such symbols of Detachment. Examples abound in most modern marvels of invention, which gobble up our senses and time. Our sticks are not nearly as sustainable as the dogs'.

I’ve certainly found it to be a joyous occasion when I become detached from the Detachment. Barring desperate measure, one may only set the most attractive stage and hope for a cameo from the primitive self. To do this, we saunter into the woods. And then all of a sudden, it’s happening...

The sky is being ripped open. The thunderous eruption of the heavens rolls from one horizon to the other. The apocalypse is upon us. The atmosphere is being violently sucked into space with a vacuum force. What’s happening? Frantic confusion ensues. Searching for clues, I note Uwharrie’s reaction. Ears alert, ridge-backing, she scans for the source of the reverberating sound. She is doing exactly what I’m doing. We’re upset animals stunned by an alien invasion.

And then the moment is gone. The realization comes before the sound can fade. It’s a passenger airliner flying thirty-thousand feet overhead. And I find it fascinating and not at all silly. How long had I forgotten about those gizmos: five, ten, fifteen minutes? The quiet returns to the forest, Uwharrie’s hairs stand down, we hike on in silence.

These days, I'm looking forward, it's true. And backward, too. But most importantly, I'm trying to look now-ward! Being hung up on the past and future leaves me anxious and impatient, and I've got lots of hang ups. And maybe I've got all these hang ups because I hang on. I'm torn up inside. The forest is our salve, so too is the company of friends. My week's highlight: rocking out with Wilson the Rocker.