Sometimes when I listen to the lyrics or melodies of songs, I choke up. The depth, the artistry, the pathos—it is a profound gift to experience music.
Other times, I can be moved to tears by the clanking of the trailer stacked with haybales. My brother drove by early today pulling a load of 14 round bales back to the main ranch. Thousands of pounds of food for the cattle, baled and stacked against the coming of the winter.
My brother loves music. I wonder what station he was listening to as he navigated the sharp turn onto the highway. I doubt the DJ was playing the tune that had popped into my head as I watched him go by.
“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go…”
Yes, it may be hard to believe, but as I’d sat mulling the redundant demands of the changing seasons, the seven dwarves had marched into my brain. They’re all here now, milling around, mocking my somber mood.
“How about I recite some your favorite verses from Ecclesiastes?” Happy asks. “What do we gain by all the toil at which we toil under the sun?” He grins sarcastically and adds, “All is vanity and a striving after the wind. But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.”
“I’m past all that,” I snap.
Grumpy sneers at me. “Liar!” Bashful gasps at such rude directness, and Sneezy begins to huff and puff. Doc grabs Dopey and Sleepy by their ears and yanks them straight into the line of fire. A seismic sneeze blows our shelter to smithereens and sends us tumbling down the hill, spilling our woefully inadequate pails of water. It’s been a dry August.
“I have people,” I reassure myself as I get up and brush off. “They’d take me in.” “Thou dost have people,” sayeth the Lord. “But thou shalt not ask to be taken in.” “Stop talking like that,” I grin. “You sound silly. But you’re right, I’m still sufficient.”
I’ve been harvesting weeds. Sonchus oleraceus (Sowthistle), for instance. The flowers are hermaphroditic. It’s edible, nutritious, and one of the five bitter herbs humans are commanded to eat on all the nights of Passover. Every one of us. The whole rainbow. The old young small and large of us. It’s the best way to remember the cruelty of slavery, the absurdity of dichotomies, and the joy of emancipation.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. It’s off to death we’ll eventually go. But before we arrive, let’s savor the harmonies, complexities, and wonderments. Let’s feed the cattle. And stoke the fire. And eat the bitter herbs.
Let’s keep it light today, I suggest to The Interaction. Great idea, she nods happily. You go first. Right. Me. Well, I could fill this day with music.
The Interaction feigns interest. I laugh. I have a playlist called Music for Dogs Riding in Cars. This is because the dogs I know best like to ride in cars and get treats from drive-through vendors.
The drool of a dog on the dashboard speaks to anticipation and delight. Even the managers at the landfill keep a supply of treats. Perhaps defensively, perhaps lovingly. Doesn’t matter to the dog.
Our senses evolved to perceive the fragile majesty of creation. The earth has thus evolved with unspeakable splendor. Perhaps defensively, perhaps joyously. Doesn’t matter.
How am I doing? I ask The Interaction. She is a spritely old woman, prone to praise and bouts of hilarity. I’ve never been sure of her sanity. Neither has she. Doesn’t matter.
Oh, so good. So tasty. So dangerous, she says. Irreverent in the extreme. Real people have been martyred for less. She pumps a fist. You go, girl. Okay, I smile. You Daughter of a Drooling Dog. Let’s roll that stone.
I’ve never been sure of my own sanity or the point of it all, and I don’t know if we’re opening a grave or joining Sisyphus. But we only roll stones that are ready. Stones that want to be rolled.
We begin this new endeavor with glee. We’re at the County Fair. Guess the weight of the stone, the Barker barks. Win a Teddy Bear. That would be cheating, I tell him. We already know the weight of the stone.
The Interaction and I link elbows. We’re drinking dialectical lemonade squeezed from a stone I painted yellow. Sweetness mediates bitterness. None of this matters to the imaginary lemon. We savor every sip.
Short visits with an honest God 