More Than a Few Options

I walk the bridge over the Grand River, crossing thresholds I’ve navigated many times before. The last time I put down footprints here, the water cracked like glass, the sky was dark too early, and all surfaces were cool to the touch before sundown. Now, the landscape is bright with sunshine, the air fresh and clean, and everything natural that jumps into focus pulses with new growth.

Even the big, fat moon tunneling the raven sky last night was luminous and alive with some invisible power that caused me to feel purified, embraced by a wide awake dream. There were stars circling the moon, forming a ring of glistening stones around the aperture of that all seeing orb, which appeared so close I could almost touch it.

That moon swallowed me up. Time turned back, and I was in the backwoods of my childhood summer home, squeaking through shallow puddles while trailing my fingertips along damp rock walls; mounting fallen trees to examine ants marching in the crevices of rotting bark; lighting a match and tossing it to ignite a bonfire in the wide open field at the center of the woods, the flames inhabiting each branch, each clinging, desiccated leaf, to produce a blaze magnificent enough to completely shut out the world for the circle of children witnessing its vicious grip.

I’m off the bridge, watching a group of children finger paint art. It strikes me how some important things come from silly things, like secret sharing from sincere hearts or finding new meaning through the creative process.

Sometimes, escapist fantasies lead us to worry about all the wrong things—but often they teach us that there are much more than a few options woven into the fabric of life.?