Again with the wake up at 1:30 AM. In Rome, in those old days, this would not be unusual. Pre-dawn was the time a well-disposed writer could give to his art, and the rest of the day was spent in service, to his friends, his community, his world. I don't have to compose by candle light, or rushlight. I have no slaves to rustle up to attend me: my secretary, my wash-slave. But I love to view the scene in my mind's eye, eked out, of course, by too many reruns of "I, Claudius". The open nature of a villa, hopefully with the ocean nearby, the breezes coming in through the eternally open windows. The scents of a well planted garden, in the dark. A horse ride away was Rome.
Of course, odds are, I would have been born a slave...still, it's a nice thought, don't you think? I am not alone in romanticizing the past, so I don't feel guilty about doing so. Roman writers complained about the dissolute youths of the wealthy roaming the streets at night. And don't forget the horse that was elected Senator. Echoes of Eric Cantor.
Back to today, and it's almost 3 AM. Pancake roams the streets of the apartment, as reckless as any privileged youth. Her teeth and claws are her knives. She stops to eat and drink and poop, and that's it. Apparently, a grown cat that hisses and spits at her, is inviting her to play. Only the dog is her faithful companion, and he is jealous of his toys. He will search the apartment for days, after she is gone.
The dog has now sat on his toy to hide it.
An old friend told me once, that everyone, absolutely everyone, has the night that comes and one stays awake and thinks over the past, and maybe, what could have been. Friends and family who are gone are remembered, and old orchards walked, that are now just grassy meadows.
On that note, J.R.R. Tolkien made a distinction between those beings who love the tended orchard, and those who love the wilds. Between those who love the hills and valley, or those who love the plains, and those who love the oceans and rivers.
Just for today, I am one for the tended orchard, full of the sour, tart cherries of the Old House. But I am cast out into the wilds of the forest. It is a comfort that my animals wait there, at the forest's heart. Sometimes I run into the Healing Power that lives there, too. I stand here, once again, at the edge of the field. I look into the forest, and remember the stream that passes through it. The rocks and the ferns wait, as transient and patient as any. The small, rare flower rests at the edge of the darker shade under the leaves. The knowledge that the grapevine seat hangs near the water, pulls at me. The old, old oak stands by the old fence that lets into nowhere now. The gate at the foot of the oak, is pushed forever open and welcome, by the brambles behind it.
At the top of the rocky trail, up the mountain, there sunlight floods the rocks, and a crown of young trees flourish. When I stand there, on the next mountain I can see the fern path under the pines that leads to the blackberry meadow below, where the deer rest. Somewhere, in that jumble, a large lone satellite dish points at the sky, rests beside the old VW, that mark a later home than the fence and gate. They mark the 'old' edge of the forest bordering the road, that the trees now possess again. I am grateful for their gangly reminder...wire fences live there, and it is well to remember them when riding on horseback.
Beyond? Stretches our National Forest, and mountain laurel. Paths have been cleared, the blue, rock moss stands out in the light. The path is two horses wide. It's funny that the deer marked, first mountain paths are clearer and more numerous. But the trees have not been cleared from the edge. The leaves brush my neck constantly...
Sometimes, I grow tired of wondering what wakes me at these hours. I can smell the horses, and the lights from the barn beckon into the darkness.
No comments:
Post a Comment