Ra

(I have been writing for some time on our lives in North Carolina…)

Buy Me According to the radio — that purveyor of all knowledge and harbinger of all truth — drinking a certain brand of bottled water will, “meet all your daily hydration needs”. I believe they are being inclusive of incoming AND outgoing needs, but that’s probably just a disgusting supposition on my part. I don’t know about you, but I find it sad to see our friends down in Marketing reduced to such lyrical inventions. I mean what’s next, actual deception? Pray thee no, not that. I say let’s bring back the whole gamut of penumbral clarity before it’s too late. By the way, if you spot Four Horsemen cruising around your neighborhood, you can be sure that an Apocryphal Focus Group has accurately targeted your demographics. After all, when the project’s end-date is Judgment Day you only get the one chance.

Oh and if you see that slacker Pestilence tell him he still owes me ten bucks for drooling on my copy of Revelations.

Ra Speaking of the End Of The World, we have been constructing a sunroom on the back of our house. Considerable efforts have been expended in thinking about this room, borne out by the very large numbers of contractors linked to the project by gossamer webs of cash. I doubt the assembly of the Taj Mahal had greater economic impact on the construction industry. I expect our room to have its own IPO soon, and be mentioned in the WSJ as one of those agile new rooms rising from the dotcom ashes. I believe I will call it Ra, The Sun Room.

Ra has been 99.9% complete for the last three weeks, with the final touches going in aaannnnyyyy day now. While standing in the room a few days ago, savoring the ambiance, soaking up the ennui, I noticed one small problem. The floor was not ummmmm, flat. There was a distinct bump… no a mound … running the length of the room. I don’t ask much from floors but being flat is one of them, and this one would require the use of pitons to reach the couch via the rarely attempted Eastern Ascent. I called the lead contractor and told him of this problem and he said no sweat, but until I reach two-dimensional nirvana in the floor universe I’m going to remain one demented little freakazoid. Fearing Ra’s wrath the sherpa guides have fled, taking our remaining rations and the keys to the Honda. Nonetheless, the Pinnacles of Rattan beckon. We move at dawn.

Letting Go I believe I have spoken of my formative years in Laurel, Maryland, way back before the Beltway was constructed and when Laurel was a little town nestled in the middle of the Baltimore-Washington Forest. Now you would have a hard time finding Laurel amongst the strip malls, townhouses and condominiums. On a trip there a couple of years back — looking for my roots, or at least some tendrils — I actually got lost trying to find the road leading out to our house. Regardless of where I turned I kept finding myself behind some Wal-Mart, trapped in that weird, nether place of high brick walls, blowing trash and giant dumpsters.

But I grew up in this place before urban sprawl arrived and even before the phrase “urban sprawl” was invented. What does that say about our naiveté; not even having a phrase to describe what was about to happen?

It’s 1956. I’m seven years old, still The Weed to my two older brothers. The woods around our house have become my personal playground and I spend many hours there inventing imaginary games. That I was able to effectively ignore the overt reality around me was more a tribute to my introverted nature than to any special powers of concentration. On one such arboreal exploration the leafy canopy above suddenly came alive with chittering movement. I peered up fearfully half expecting to see the gaping maw of some insectile horror, but instead glimpsed a small animal gliding from tree to tree — A flying squirrel. As I watched it glided directly to a small opening in a disintegrating tree trunk. From the tiny chirping sounds I guessed correctly that either there were baby squirrels inside or I was witness to some dreadful interspecies experiment. The seven-year-old brain does not so much form plans as react to stimuli so on impulse I ran home to fetch a burlap bag. When I got back to the tree hollow the mother was gone but I found the small flyers, nestled together. I put them carefully into the burlap bag, sat down and waited. The mewling cries of the babies soon attracted the mother, and she approached slowly, unsure of what to make of this giant squirrel-knapper. I remained completely still. Her maternal instincts eventually overcame her natural caution and soon she was climbing up onto my shoulder and then into the burlap bag. Pulling the bag slowly closed, I had captured a flying squirrel family!

My brothers and I kept this (flock? herd? swarm?) of flying squirreli for several weeks. As they matured and became more comfortable with us we found that a light toss would send them gliding smoothly to the nearest person where they would cling like barnacles to our shirts. Had we been more entrepreneurial I suppose we could have cornered the market on a wacky new party game, Grab The Squirrel, anticipating by several decades the arrival of Jerry Springer[tm]. When it came time to re-introduce the squirrels to the forest, I did not experience the expected pain of separation. I somehow knew that I had never really owned them – just borrowed them – and had been allowed a chance to share a moment in time and space.

We collect things all our lives; money, power, fame, people, memories — and if we are not careful they can end up owning us. Our experiences help make us who we are, but they can also limit and blind and distract. On that day so many years ago before time had stolen the truth, I realized that sometimes only in letting go do we discover ourselves.

#NorthCarolina