age.

There is a symphony in their faces—something delicate I suppose. But I prefer to say seasoned, or even weather-beaten. Not weak for the sake of it, weak for the many past years of strength. They have faced it, nearly the entirety of it, and we are pawns next to their knowledge. Life. They know the ins and outs, the troubles we believe shall never come to us and the victories we cannot yet recognize. We label them, “old people” and they call us “young hooligans.” But when the generations collide peacefully there is a depth of wisdom to be had.

There is something careless in their mannerisms. A way of living quite alien to myself. They do not bother about others’ estimations, they bother about the day. It is not, “what shall the world think of me this year?” it is, “what shall I be able to do today?” Certainly not all with age have such an ease, but certainly few without the age do.

I suspect it is odd of me, to want to share in their sentiments. I do. I want to feel less about how others see me, and I want to feel more in the victory of this day. Sip my coffee, elated at my taste buds, and walk under trees, awed. Proud to have the dishes washed. I can only wish to have a small piece of the wisdom that graces them; I wish.

I cannot yet speak as they do, saying whatever sentences I please, unabated. When such a young one does this, the mouths drop about the room and there is that awful sense that all was much better prior to one’s talking. When a seasoned one does this, everyone smiles politely and laughs about it later. “Oh to be old,” they say, “how it dulls the social queues and sensitivities.” Well, I like to think it is not a dullness to the unspoken rules, but a somewhat noble disregard for them, that prompts their unrestraint. “We have lived,” they cry through dentures, “and shall not pretend to be perfect as we once did.”

Hear, hear.

We young are a foolish lot, but it is the weather-beaten that best see our folly. They do sometimes judge us for it and we do always judge them for judging us. Silly.

If I could give a gift to us foolish, it would be this: That we might live joyfully accepting, “someday that worn one will be me,” and so we change.

foxes in the snow.

Tried to eat snow. But it was too fluffy and floated away from my reaching tongue. All this shuffling through flurries, wears me out in the good sort of way. Then it is the rushing as sled hits hill and I am sky-bound for a glorious collage of moments. I’m in a wonderland, if only for the last hour of daylight. And oh, the day this is now—so different from the one I awoke to. So much whiter and livable. Maybe hopeful.

After supper it is declared a time for development of art and intellect. Pens, pencils, books, paper. If only the little brother would stop jumping. But I would miss it if he did stop. Jump away. I will intellect on.

Of a sudden, he jumps and I see snow again. Curtsy and twirl. A dance of flurry fairies—all the forest has come to see. Little foxes prance with frost on their noses and tails. Between trees and across a frozen lake. We shouldn’t be able to see each other but for the oddest of unknowns, we do. A royal witnessing of wonder. I am not a queen though. I am a baffled bystander. Too often we make ourselves queens. I will be careful not to.

Just watch. And say thank you.

They smile—the intellectuals now—at their work on paper. And I look to mine; a grin of anticipation starts to crawl up my cheeks. But no good. It is empty.

Doesn’t seem to matter how greatly I think, there is no way of saying it. That’s that. So I must choose from these: speak and bewilder? Or just stick to thoughts, that I might appear correctly put-together? The choice is made, for this night at least. Don’t be so silly as to ask. There are words here.

cattail ventures.

We talk big. But we do, and we feel small. So small, and cold down to our bones. The wild is never so kind to us as we assume it will be amidst our anticipations. But we fight and carve out some enjoyment regardless.

We wilderness seekers, we think we know how to find our dreams. Then we get knee-deep into the looking and figure out we may not be content until after we have gotten passed what we hoped to get to.

The campsite is excellence, except for the thorn thickets which require hours of clearing. The hike is good, except for the endless hills and too-small shoes.

We argue and laugh, argue and laugh. Soon we short-cut and pretend we don’t care that we are “cheating.” But hot tea awaits us at the halfway point and we can’t believe how big the lake is there.

It is evident, on the getting there, that the map should be studied and a different course taken on the homeward journey. In the midst of tea and decisions we spill a quarter pound of sugar. Something for the forest folk to remember us by.

Go back by the frozen marshes—it is decided.

Cattails break dryly before our feet and their fluffy heads coat us in pollen. We laugh more and argue less. But we hurry. Our highway of ice starts to melt. Irony is a regular comrade on these ventures. We want it cold now, but as we shivered in our sleeping bags only hours ago, warmth was all we dreamed of.

We make it out, we make it home. And there we lie, exhausted. It is not that we aren’t glad we adventured, just that we need a bit of time before we are eager to do it again. One night should do.

off to work we go.

We trudge through the tall river weeds humming, “hi ho, hi ho,” in our heads, for it is off to work we go. It is not a loud, bustling job we endeavor at, but it is always outside, and so keeps our senses alive. We’ve come to survey the land. It is true that many have failed in their attempts to conquer the outdoors, and while we conquer it not, we must measure it. Man would own all this. We would see him own the right parts.

I am not sure if it is noble, what we do. But I am certain it is not wrong.

While it can be dull at times, I find it is a vibrant setting for the imagination. Many a knight has ridden by and bidden me a fine day, wishing me sunny skies while I waited for father to finish thinking. He, that is father, is awfully clever at the thinking bit. Much as I nod along with his mathematical mutterings, and amuse myself that I think along too, I haven’t the mind for it. And most times I accept the truth—I am only present for manual labor.

Once I’ve accepted my role though, I am at peace with it. Either way, I snootily conceive that the company I provide is a little better than the lack of it I do not.

This morning we trudge. It’s the swamps of the Missouri River bottom which they have called us to and it is vital, father says, that we keep our feet dry. Not freezing out, but when we stop moving the wind reminds us of our proximity to Christmas. Late December never was too warm in these parts.

Hi ho, hi ho.

Father paces along the river bank, with cold, lulling waters eight yards below. I chat with the lost pirates who ran aground near St. Louis over two weeks ago. They are rather grumpy after their extended foot-journey, but I offer them a bit of the lunch in my knapsack and they cheer up. I don’t ask where they are headed. I have learned not to inquire about such things. No doubt their quest involves treasure. And so does ours, in its own way.

I often equate our looking and digging to a treasure hunt. For we stop trudging only to search out buried landmarks every thousand feet, give or take some hundreds and a few mathematical specifics. Through the years I have learned to feel a deep excitement when we unearth old surveyor stones and irons—I can now say it is comparable to the thrill of finding a chest of doubloons. As a child my sentiments were slightly different.

The sky begins to tuck the sun into bed for the evening and we only just finish our last search. It is a faint tune now—exhaustion quiets us sweetly—but our heads fill again with the song of dwarves.

Hi ho, hi ho.

But now, it is home from work we go. And that is the best part of it all.

untitled.

But you, Bethlehem Eprathah,

Though you are little among the thousands of Judah,

Yet out of you shall come forth to Me

The One to be Ruler in Israel,

Whose goings forth are from of old,

From EVERLASTING…

Then the remnant of His brethren shall return…

He shall stand and feed His flock…

And this One shall be PEACE.

-Micah 5

Sometimes there are not words. Only thoughts between heartbeats. Impossible to pen, these. I will not try. I will sit and turn this over and over softly inside—this One shall be PEACE.

Peace.

And He did not take it all with Him when He went away.

Peace I leave with you. My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you.*

Like the song of angels amidst shining glory—on earth PEACE.**

Peace.

*John 14:27

**Luke 2:14

forms of feet phobia.

We won’t touch our own toes. Some form of feet phobia. When the cold sets in we thrust them so close to the fire we nearly catch flame to wool socks. Don’t ask us about it, we get disgruntled saying it all out loud. But truthfully, we steal each other’s socks. And we make a rude fuss over other’s toes. Won’t admit it, but we do.

One evening we spent fourteen minutes scrutinizing Miss Won’t-Say-Her-Name’s toes. She might as well have been entirely made of toes for how we put the judgment on her. And Mr. Can’t-Mention-Him’s been a nasty topic of conversation for months now. But that’s all hush-hush. Not a one of us would confess to how we feel about his toes, except to all besides him.

Thing is, we’re more comfortable critiquing the toes of others because we feel stupid about our own. Stupid, secretive, or just plain in-denial.  That is where the cold comes in—reminds us we’ve got toes at all. And the bother they are, but we keep them warm anyway.

Cross-our-heart truth, we know we should be fine to deal with our own toes. But the facts don’t help. We’d rather cover them up—pull on other people’s socks and then talk about So-and-So’s dreadful toes. Not ours.

It’s the feet phobia is all. Most everyone’s got it, so we don’t worry much.

think.

“There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say: Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are naught without prudence… Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.” –Edward Whymper, Scrambles Amongst the Alps

How does one recover from the realization—slow or sudden—that the dreams of the soul, though wild and great, were too eloquent? Most face this wound of realism. If not in the failures and unplanned turns of life, then in the suddenness of death. I was to do more. Be more. And oh, how faint this footprint next to the depths of my supposing.

Is there any true peace in our ever meager existences?

If we are good we roam the woods and explore religions in search of it. If we are great we rule the cities, running from it. If we are selfish we defy it. And if we love well we often feel it. Though rare is the heart still enough to abide within it.

My life seems so very long to my naïve senses, but has been short thus far. I know little and have done even less. I am made un-revolutionary simply in being—nearly nonexistent are the chances that I will have an original thought in my entire lifetime. Any grand plans I concoct or epiphanies I document will have already made a show of it in one of the centuries, if not in all of them. I am almost certainly doomed to irrelevance on this earth. They say, “Make a mark” just to help me feel better I guess. As though the odds were in my favor.

So might I at least be granted some peace in my handful of years? A little joy to curb the disappointment of imitation? Perhaps a reasonable serving of love to make the journey worth laughing along?

Yet chaos and loneliness are mine in cycles so long as I roam here. The peace is a reaction—a digging into a foundation rooted on other shores. And one day, Lord help me, I will arrive there, freed at last from the perseverance required of my peace-seeking kind. Yet it is a celebratory event which I must, at times, discipline myself to anticipate.

Because I love the fight. Don’t we all? History sighs, “thank God, they admit it.” Yes, we do.

If we fight for the love, the joy—it is sweeter. And if we crawl up a mountain to get at the peace maybe the more is ours to have. Surely so, we settle on. Seems logical. Then we’re off. If we’re not careful, a whole life flits away—climbing perpetually. Not to say, do not climb. Just to say, think. Pause. Reconsider perhaps. As if there weren’t enough sad dead to call to us in cautioning.

What is the end, peace-searcher? Do we see distant shores or do we scramble up without prudence? Who do we bring along on the good journey? And who have we slighted or ruined in the bad? Don’t fool yourself. The love, joy, even the peace, are temporarily re-creatable. But man, I promise you, cannot abide within such falsehoods. He can merely hide behind them.

Recovery seems to come with the acceptance that laughs. When we say, “alright, me, you were a little too ambitious.” It doesn’t have to end the journey, it just makes it doable.

Look well to each step. Think.