I’m somewhere above Lake Erie, contemplating what it means to find one’s edge. I suppose I’m circling around in the same old holding pattern. The edge, of course, is just another way of conceptualizing the here and now, another way to say “Head the gong.” At this point, I think I have a pretty good idea how to get to the edge from wherever I find myself and, once I’m there, to recognize that I’m there. It’s just that I find it difficult these days to hang out on the edge for any length of time. I take one peek over the precipice then retreat back to the comfort and relative numbness of the familiar circles.
In less than one hour I’ll be back at the starting line. Back where all the ghosts scud like clouds over a full moon. Home. Less than an hour till the wheels touch down. Always a heartbeat from the edge, if only I’d remember to feel for the pulse.
This morning I woke at 3am to the terrible squeal of the alarm clock. Drugged with dreams, I pushed through the internal clouds to get to the bathroom, the garage, El Paso International Airport, the line to board my flight. Now I’m up, above the clouds, the baseball diamonds, the fingertip of Erie as it probes into Pennsylvania. Heading due East, to the edge, which can be on the ground or in the air or twenty thousand leagues under the sea. It just takes a second to feel for the pulse, for the blood flowing under the surface, through the vessels, into the tissue and over the bones.
*
The weather here in Vermont is spectacular. Last night we saw several shooting stars and marveled at the glow of the Milky Way. When the sun’s up, trout dart through the pond out behind the house. The color green seeps into your soul, especially when you come, as I have, from the arid Southwest.
These lazy Vermont days have been a real tonic for me. I’ve been reading, writing, playing music, sleeping in, drinking too much, taking in nature, and enjoying all sorts of other delicious indulgences that put me in the finest fettle. It’s been so nice to have my attention span to myself, instead of caught up in the demands of graduate school.
A cool breeze drifts in through the window, carrying the steam from my cup of coffee into my field of vision. One doesn’t realize just how important creamer is to a good cup of coffee until one is forced to take it black. It’s like cocoa without sugar. Some things were made to go together. The birds are singing their morning songs, and my father-in-law has just returned from a wild mushroom hunt. His basket is full of Black Trumpets. The early bird gets the worm, the mushrooms, and the last of the creamer for his cup of coffee.
I’ve been reviewing some of the old bits of writing to see what might be worth compiling, but I can’t shake the sense that it would be better to focus my attention toward finding the edge and developing my capacity to hang out there for more than a nanosecond. Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself. It’s just that I’m so goddamned content, so edgeless, so round and soft and sleepy and secure. So pointless. I’m a cup of creamer with no coffee in it. A spoonful of sugar sans the cocoa.
*
A light rain is falling on this, my final morning here in tranquil, soul-rejuvenating Vermont. The rain dripping off the leaves reminds me that I’ll need to pee soon. I’ll also need to pack soon, to ready myself for the return journey. A four-hour drive from Vermont to the airport in Albany, NY. Three flights to get to El Paso. An hour drive home to Las Cruces. It’s been a nice break, just what the doctor ordered, and I’m ready to resume my role as regular-life me. I think I’ll be able to deliver my lines with a bit more gusto this time around. And… action!
Checking in with my breath I soon notice the weight of my bones and then the pulsing of blood through the vessels. As my attention sinks down and in, it settles on a rapidly intensifying sense of urgency. I need to poop. Right now. Welcome to the edge.
