The park
This kid comes out of nowhere. Before I know it he kicks the ball with a vengeance. It shoots past me like it’s been fired from a canon. I’m a little ticked off at first, but face it, he put a lot more into it than I could have. Besides, it was just an errant ball in an informal, middle-aged-guy soccer game.
So I’m turning back to the game and I hear my buddy yell, “way to go, Jeff!” He thought I hit it. I shout back, “Thanks, but...” I turn to point to the kid. He’s gone. Like, beam me up, gone. I look around. He’s nowhere. I’ll tell you, there’s no way that kid could have moved out of my field of vision that fast. Did I imagine it? If not him, then who hit the ball? Wasn’t me.
So I get back into the game. My team is winning. In fact, we won — which rarely happens. Not a big deal except everyone chalks it up to my killer kick. They’re slapping me on the back. They’re buying me beer. Okay, I don’t mention the kid. That would be weird. But the whole thing feels a little off. The beer is good, though.
Some ideas
So then a couple of days after that, my boss calls me into his office. I go in and sit down. He’s holding my report. He tells me he’s always found my work to be competent, but... Oh, man, I don’t like the sound of this. Shame spiral coming on. It’s a big company, so there’s a termination process. They have to warn you first — give you a chance to turn things around. Then I realize I need to pay attention to what he’s saying now. I’m so busy trying to calm myself down, I haven’t really been listening. It sounds like he’s saying the report is really good. Some of my insights (I have insights?) helped upper management revamp its strategy. They’re looking at big cost savings. They’re promoting me to lead the new strategy team.
I leave my boss’s office feeling numb. Heading back to my desk I see the top of someone’s head in my cubicle. Someone is sitting in my seat. Who the hell would do that? Then he stands up, and it’s that kid! I’m like, no way! He doesn’t look over at me. He just takes off. I cut across a couple of aisles to try and head him off. But by the time I get to the elevator, he’s gone.
Okay, now I’m a little afraid I might be losing it. We have to wear security badges in order to get around in the building. There’s no way that kid had a badge. And no one else seemed to notice him.
My boss wants me to go check out my new office, so since I’m at the elevators, I go upstairs. I try to act casual. I pass the office and do like a side glance thing to make sure no one’s in there. It’s empty. Nice furniture, though. And big — with an amazing view — just waiting for me.
Back home
My wife gets excited about the promotion. Since the kids are grown and gone, we’ve each been doing our own thing. But now we’re talking. This is nice, talking to each other again. It’s seems like — I don’t know, like — she’s back. Or, maybe, we’re back. She’s so happy. I want to tell her about the kid, but I’m not sure how. I don’t want to mess it up.
She tells me she’s glad I took the initiative. I can’t tell her I just got lucky. I mean, no one cares what I think. Besides, it’s not like they asked me, “Would you be interested?” They decided for me. My wife seems to think they dangled the promotion and I went for it. But just like how the kid kicked that ball. Wasn’t me.
I can’t stop thinking about that kid — the way he’s so free. That’s how my son was, when he was younger. I don’t see it in him now, though. He’s working on his Master's, trying to make money, get established. If I could go back, I’d tell him to stay loose. I think kids focus on growing up because they think that’s when you get to be whoever you want. So wrong! If anything, it’s just the opposite. But that kid just lets time do its thing like it has no power over him. He just shows up.
The quiet
A few days ago my wife left to stay with her mother, who’d had a fall. What’s weird is, it’s the first time I’ve been completely alone in awhile. We don’t even have a dog any more. I don’t think the house has ever been this quiet.
It’s funny the things you think about when it gets really quiet. Maybe that’s why I avoid it. Like, I know I’m getting older, but I still feel young. It makes me think of when they put make-up on actors so they seem older. My outside looks different, but I didn’t decide that — it just happened. I’m still the same inside. There’s all this stuff I do that doesn’t have anything to do with me, really. It’s just expected. Part of the story. And the story changes constantly. But no matter what happens, there’s a me that doesn’t ever change. The me outside the story.
Outside
It’s late afternoon. There’s a nice breeze. I don’t feel like going inside, so I start walking. I used to walk our dog, Finn, but he’s been gone for years now. We weren’t ready for another dog right away, so we waited. Then with the kids getting older and no one at home much, we just never did get another dog. That kid and Finn — kind of the same feeling. Just being.
And there he is. Just up ahead. The kid is standing there looking right at me. As I start to move toward him, he turns and heads into the thick cluster of trees at the edge of the park. I follow him. Once I’m in the trees, I see a path and notice the strong smell of pine. It’s intoxicating — fresh and sure of itself. I reach up and grab a clump of green pine needles and feel their smoothness slip through the palm of my hand. They leave a little smear of sticky sap on my wrist.
Stepping into a someplace new
I look up and there’s all this life going on. There’s a cardinal chirping a “tsip” sound. A wren ticks back at him. The wind picks up and swooshes the tree branches against each other like big, bushy dog tails. A thick carpet of pine needles blankets the trail and muffles my footsteps. Leaves are rustling. Twigs are breaking around me. A squirrel darts across the path ahead, stops to check me out, then dashes off.
I see a clearing that opens up to reveal a good-sized pond. It’s almost like it’s here waiting for me. So I take a minute to sit on a tree trunk and look out over the water. It’s later than I thought. The light is turning soft and there’s a golden haze over everything. There’s a rhythmic lapping sound and ripples dancing lightly across the surface of the water. I look around the edge of the water and see a stream nursing the pond. As I look at the water I see the sky, trees, flowers, grasses — everything — reflected back.
Where is this taking me?
There’s this amazing dragonfly darting around my head. It’s got an iridescent glint of light on its wings — almost looks like it’s throwing sparks! When I was a kid I used to lie in a soft cushion of grass and watch fireflies blink against the night sky. They’d do this crazy dance — kind of a Morse code staccato — pinpoints of light darting over me, flashing off and on. There’d be a gentle breeze at that hour. And always a symphony of crickets. I’d ease down into the grass, so relaxed it was like melting. Eventually, I’d hear my mother’s voice, warm and hushed, “Come inside now. It’s late.”
Where am I now?
It sounds like distant mumbling at first. Then I realize it’s the “ziz, ziz, ziz” of a bee hovering just above the water’s surface. Beneath the surface, a dark spot moves — a pool of tiny fish swimming together almost in the shape of a larger fish. Some kind of common intention directs them, merges them into one fish being. Like birds flying in formation — they become one collective bird being that defies the unique will of the individuals. It’s like they all share one mind. Graceful and effortless. If I’m quiet enough, maybe I can tune in to it. So I watch the fish dart suddenly — first this way, then that — all of them together, with no rhyme or reason. They swim in the pond but are also part of the being that is the pond. The pond resonates with the forest, and together they resonate with the sky. One organism, inhaling, exhaling.
Time dissolves. The forest hums. I feel the vibration inside. I don’t want to leave. So I stay as the golden light fades. The ivory beams of the full moon begin to drift down onto the water. I merge with the sounds of the crickets in my ears, the scent of decaying leaves and soil, the air getting cooler as the warmth of the sun ebbs away. I can feel that kid, and the kid I used to be, and the me that doesn’t change, and everything that’s unchanging — the things I know deep down but can’t say. It’s an ache at first, but then it quickly gives way to a wave of tenderness — an experience I’ve been living without for quite some time. I don’t want to leave.
Taking flight
The birds are quiet now. Everything’s hushed. I peer into the endless darkness. The glow of moonlight falls on a massive oak, it’s outstretched limbs gesturing to me. I stand and approach the tree. Suddenly — a huge blur of spectral white rises up, propelling upward in total silence. Wildly insubstantial — it’s there, yet it’s not. So huge, light, so incredibly beautiful — perfect and without a sound. An angel? I’m not scared. I feel deeply serene. And then it’s gone.
My face feels wet — I’m crying. Wow. What was that? An owl? I’ve heard that owls fly silently. Maybe I stirred up an owl. Could have been. I don’t know why I’m crying. It felt like my Self — powerful, ethereal, free — flying home into the heart of God.
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