| Rayne Today Searching for dharma, in spite of the weather...
Build-A-Meme Project: What have you done for me lately? Summer’s over; it’s back to work and back to school. That means it’s time to dust off the Build-A-Meme Project and swing back into action. I’ll be back on Saturdays at What about you? What have you done for the cause lately? Go ahead, spill here or in the Forums, tell me what you’ve been up to or disclose your plans for the future to help the regime change in 2004. --- And now, a plug for my candidate of choice: Join us for the next Dean in 2004 MeetUp! Please RSVP now to join other Dean Supporters on Wednesday, Sep 3 @ If you can’t make it to this MeetUp, make plans for the next one; they’re held every month on the first Wednesday of the month. To learn more about candidate Howard Dean, go to: http://www.deanforamerica.com To follow the campaign and Dean initiatives, go to: http://www.blogforamerica.com Hope to see you at the MeetUp! Go ahead, leave a plug here in comments for your Democratic candidate of choice, too!  comment []
Walking back I went walking in the morning while on vacation at my folks’ place in upper Being up north on the lake, one can choose to walk along the road or the beach. The beach walk is rarely ever taken alone; there’s always someone that insists on walking with you. Either the kids want to walk, playing in the surf along the mile stretch of sand or the parents or aunts and uncles want to walk along to gossip. It’s fun nonetheless, if not quiet. The surf during high tides can be tricky and surprise you, wetting your walking shoes; the kids can check you up short with a demand to skip a rock on the water or look at the bug/dead fish/driftwood they found. The adults will simply chatter away, drowning out the soothing sound of the surf. Fortunately, I could have a little time to myself while walking quietly on the road leading to and from the cabin in the morning. My mother and daughter accompanied the first morning, but only made it to the half-mile point before turning around to return to the cabin. I continued down the road to the two-mile point before heading back. I’d made this same trek hundreds of times as a kid. My mother spent the entirety of every summer for most of my grade school years at the cabin with us kids, far away from the nearest real town. It was incredibly boring and very safe; there was nothing to get into in the way of trouble. I would frequently run out of the cabin in the morning after my finishing my chores, not to return for ten or twelve hours. But running out of the cabin to escape my mother and siblings meant having to walk on foot for miles to the houses of playmates. It felt like it took hours to walk to and from their homes, even though they only lived 2 or 3 miles away up the road. The road is gritty, damp from recent rain, scritch-scratching beneath my walking shoes. I’m thankful for these shoes, remembering the dozens of times I walked this way in sandals, or barefoot when the blisters from my sandals proved to be too irritating for walking. But would I have worn these shoes those years ago were they offered to me? Hell no. Not if my mother offered them. Occasionally we’d hitch a ride to the little burg up the road – not much more than a cluster of houses -- in which my friends lived. Mom would pick up the mail at the post office and leave us there; we’d walk back to the cabin before dinner. More often than not I’d be by myself; my siblings would stay with mom and play on the beach at the cabin rather than have to walk back to the cabin. No matter at all; I relished the freedom to play with kids my own age, to go exploring the town and swimming at the nearby park rather than be stuck with my younger siblings. On the walk home, though, I’d have second thoughts about the price of freedom. On hot, sticky afternoons, the sun beating a tattoo on my head and the gritty dust of the pinkish sand in my eyes and mouth, I’d be praying for my mother’s car to head in my direction. Maybe I’d get lucky and she’d pick me up on her way to town. Or not, as was generally the case. Worse, mysterious sounds would torment me as I walked back to the cabin. On the way down the hill through the woods, I would hear twigs snapping, leaves rustling. Was it a bear or just a deer? The road changed after the first mile, becoming hard-packed sand-and-gravel, the kind that throws up dust with every car that travels along it. I prayed no cars would pass me; please, don’t leave me in a cloud of pinkish sandy dust. The grit would fill my eyes, my nostrils, my mouth for a half-hour. About the time I got past that third of the road, I would be entering woods again, this time adjoining a swamp. Mosquitoes would nag at me, goading me along the way. The sounds would start again, this time squirrels and chipmunks offering comic relief with their chattering and scampering. Still, nagging doubts would chew at me along the way. Was that a snake rustling under those leaves, or just a mouse? These fears gave way as I grew older; I was terrified as a child, peevishly put-off as a pre-teen, petulant and angry as a teenager. Imagine, the nerve of parents expecting a kid to walk all that way in the heat and the bugs and the dust. My internal chatter drowned out the sounds of the forest; I no longer heard the fear-inspiring noises as I plodded and plotted along the path back to the cabin. Eventually I grew up and left home, left behind the torment of walking along the road on those long summer days. Now I long to have those days back, when the most challenging task before me was covering a quiet, wooded stretch of road between here and there, a mere handful of miles of solitude. Not even my early schedule offers me that quietude; I can hear cars and trucks on the highway a mile from my home as early as I used to mark the distance home by the stretch of road I was on, by the occasional cabin I passed along the way. How long would it take me to get from this cabin to the next cabin, a half mile away? I raced against myself, against the mysterious sounds in the woods, counting the minutes and seconds. The sound of nothing, absolutely nothing, scared me as much, made me walk that much faster. Surely the sound of nothing was the sound of creatures watching, waiting in the dappled shadows; this niggling fear egged me on. I no longer keep track of the houses or the road – they matter not since the road is all asphalt and the houses cheek-and-jowl. I only watch the clock to mark the time; there are no mysterious sounds, only the traffic in the distance and the yapping of noisy neighborhood dogs, the cough and hum of cars being started by commuters on my street. There are creatures watching me, for certain, but they’re only the weird neighbor having a daybreak cigarette on his patio and his goofy mixed breed dog keeping him company. No mysteries there at all; no fear either, just minor annoyance with the smell of tobacco smoke so close to my house and the pitiful dog barking a feeble greeting too near the window of my still sleeping children. The long, quiet stretch of road is gone, save only for infrequent vacations and trips to the past. We could try moving to the countryside, where I might have a better chance at finding that solitary walk on a quiet bit of road. The price is high, though; there would be much more time spent in the car going to and from the simplest of errands. My spouse would have a longer commute and I might not be able to find a job for much longer than I anticipated. The safety and convenience of our suburban lives would be upended; we’d be contributing to the loss of farm lands, contributing to the negative affects of urban/suburban flight. My kids would have no one near by to play with; they might have to ride their bikes or walk quite a distance to their closest playmates. Wait a minute. I might have to re-think that. comment []
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