Lost
I was behind him for three, maybe six traffic lights, watching to see if he’d make good on his right turn signal which had been blinking for at least two miles, maybe longer. Other drivers slowed and gave him openings, a couple of gentle honks but he didn’t change course, just kept flowing in the stream of cars heading east and onward, right taillight blinking as if irritated for being ignored. From my assured safe distance position looking through his back window, I could see him gesturing forcefully, his head swiveling and nodding, snapping in one direction, then another to punctuate whatever point he was making. There was a mobile phone mounted on the dash, no one in the passenger seat. I wondered what he cared so passionately about and how he was using some Saturday windshield time to work through it. Just west of the outer belt on-ramp he finally changed lanes and I pulled up alongside him on the left, glancing and gathering a few more visuals to satisfy my curiosity. Still gesturing, head, hands and upper torso fully engaged in relaying his message to some invisible recipient, he slid into the rolling pack of cars on their way to wherever they needed to be. I wished them all safe travels with an extra bit of peaceful resolution for this brother and his listener.
Raise your hand if you’ve ever been swallowed whole like this, in the company of others or not, so completely focused on a singular happening that you forget to eat, you don’t change positions in your chair, you miss your exit ramp. Can you recall precisely what captivated you so, to the exclusion of every other bit of stimuli floating in the data soup we swim in all day long? Give me a minute and I might be able to come up with a blurry memory of something, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you what I missed because, well…I missed it. Let’s call it Extreme Mindfulness bordering on the slightly dangerous and indulgent, depending on the particulars of your circumstance and while we’re describing here, add a slice of Escapism (determined by intent, of course).
I think we live in urgent times, one crisis after another paraded in front of our faces and if you and I are at all similar, we try to choose wisely which new forum our attention. I’ve been fully present a few times, but with tinnitus, a third book in the making and more than one kitten in the house, there’s a continuous supply of competition lately. For all the training I’ve done on the merits of active listening, I’m still on the student side of the lectern most days, working humbly to make it a practice rather than a noteworthy pop-up event. You’ll have to ask Patrick and a few of my coworkers about my success; that’s not my call.
I don’t know what had that gentleman so agitated (or keyed up, if that sounds kinder) but in that moment, I envied him his focus, full-body and comprehensive from my narrow view through the driver’s side window of his automobile. And what about his audience? I assume it was someone he knew on his darkened mobile phone propped up there on the dashboard, but maybe he was giving voice to no one but himself, talking filter-less and unedited in a most cleansing act of mind-clearing. Who gets to do that these days without being judged or analyzed, opinions picked apart and scattered to the harsh winds of scrutiny? In the privacy or our cars and bathrooms, perhaps, and doesn’t it feel good to get it all out for a change? But what about those falling inward moments when we’re deep in thought, completely immersed in another’s grand and epic tale of triumph or woe, or at a studio worktable with all our paints or fabric, doing whatever they tell us to do until the momentum peaks and resolves? Many’s the night Patrick has been toiling in his shop out back on the ridge, the only window offering a view of his add-on shed filled with more tools, piles of wood waiting to be Something Else, and I’ve got to fetch him for dinner that’s long since grown cold. I will often take snacks into my own creative space/downstairs guestroom in case the urge strikes in between stitches and PVA glue but have left too many cups of tea untended while I sank into deciding whether leather or cardstock would be better for a newly minted blank journal’s spine cover. To be so lost and disconnected from the rigid framework of time’s passing is a gift like no other, rare as the northern lights in an Ohio sky.
Tink (our youngest feline rescue) has taken to falling asleep on my chest lately at day’s end, after she’s ping-ponged across the small expanse of our living room, upsetting plants and terrorizing her older adopted siblings. I may never know the mind of a kitten in such a playground but she seems to be mastering the art of being in the moment, all chaotic and untethered to any agenda whatsoever. I ease into dozing off with her after a few moments and it feels deliciously all-consuming. Nothing else matters (I’ll right the toppled plants in a minute, smooth back the bunched and scattered throw rugs she used to surf across the painted wood floors) and I sink into a place where seconds and hours are meaningless. When we wake up, it’s time to stand and stretch and think about what’s for eating and that’s enough for now.
In this urgent and scary world, I hope to disappear into the next distraction more fully and more often, hopelessly lost and happy. Just leave me be and send good wishes for my safety. I’ll be back. Maybe.
