Friday, January 28, 2011

The Flood. The Flow. You know?

Just cranked out about four straight hours of working on a section of my book. When I was tapped out, I knew it, announcing that a gasket in my engine had blown and that I needed a tow, immediately, to the nearest beverage. I rarely hammer away at it so intently, rather I take breaks to engage in an IM conversation or spend some time surfing Facebook. However (a slice of my vision, raw though it may be)...
An 18-wheeler rumbled past, loudly blowing its air horn. The blast of air and sound rocked my cab and woke me up. It felt as if I'd barely slept, but the sky was already showing the bluish tint of light. I sat up to see the trucks taillights disappearing over a small hill ahead.

Fig Tree 2 - Santa BarbaraImage by gem66 via FlickrRoughly brushing my hand back and forth through my hair, I took a few moments to evaluate my surroundings in the daylight. "Huh. No trees. Well… one tree." A large fig tree stood monolithic to the flat, grassy land around it about three hundred yards north of the cab. After opening the passenger door, I slid out, stretched, and started walking toward the tree.

Middle of nowhere. The distance between here and where I'd left was palpable. In other words, I felt the separation from those that I'd known my entire life--I liked it. There was a slight uphill grade to the tree, which was no problem to walk, but it had been hard to see in the waist high wheat from the side of the road. Just like in the movies, I walked with hands stretched outward, allowing the brushy spikes to tickle the underside of my palms. The wind ruffled my bed-head of hair, and I didn’t care. The only sound came from the wind casually waving the wheat.

As I crested the knoll, I saw that the area around the tree had been expertly manicured. It was a large fig, one that'd certainly beaten all the odds that had been cast against it, even in the eyes of whomever had clear-cut this field to make way for agriculture. Its canopy shaded a circle at high noon that would have been about twenty yards in diameter. The mowed area extended beyond that in a circle of an additional twenty yards. At the edge of the branches sat a white desk and two chairs. The chair behind the desk a simple four-legged, wooden table chair, also white, that sat at angle to the desk, one corner tucked under it. The other chair was a more comfortable-looking brown, leather chair-and-a-half placed opposite the chair-desk combination, as is normally the case with these types of things. Both chairs were empty.

After crossing from the wheat field into the grass, I stood looking at the furniture, my fingers stroking my chin, contemplating which seat I'd prefer. I first tried the larger, leather chair, but it was too hot, having been in the first light of the morning for too long. I moved to the desk chair, pulled it away from the desk, and sat down. With my feet on the desk and my hands locked behind my head, I felt relaxed for the first time in quite awhile.

Life felt new. I was living, not waiting around for death. Facing east, the warmth of the sun felt like two hands against my cheeks in a proud embrace of affection. You done good! I smiled at the feeling and drew in through my nose a long, deep breath. A piece of wheat that I’d plucked while walking through the field dangled from my mouth as I chewed on the stem. No cigarettes. No cheeseburgers. No nothingness. None of the crap that I couldn’t get away from while living in suburbia. Life for living.
As I sat there with my eyes closed, a voice interrupted my meditative state; Great Grandpa Walker came to engage me in a conversation about Places of Power, of which this was one. And, there are things that you need to know about Places of Power.

I guarantee.
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