Detours and noise

Late Thursday afternoon, a red car sped off College Parkway, dumping itself into a ditch backwards and somehow losing its roof. I was commuting to my house to gather materials to teach Business Writing in Waldorf that night. Emergency crews and police had blocked the street at both ends denying me access to my community. After an obsequious plea to the local "authority", he deigned to move an orange cone and permit me to my home (which was no where near the actual accident).

The two lane parkway, usually a constant stream of vehicles so that I imagine that I live near the ocean and late at night transform the flow of traffic into a surf landing on the beach that is just feet from my doorstep. This works until a Harley trespasses my illusions, although I transform it into a late night teen escape on a dune buggy digging through the packed sand.

I drove solo down College Parkway to my community. Silent silent. I creep the Prius, running on electric, so that no sound intruded. The stealth was intoxicating. And the silence.

Sally and I took our walk to the sound of birds nesting. I had not noticed them at that time of day despite the visual presence. Now a symphony of nesting of the birds camouflaged on high branches drew up my chin, perked Sally's ears.

By the time I left for class the flood of vehicles had returned. If you don't hear the birds or see the birds, are the birds still there? Does it matter if it doesn't heal your soul?

Then tonight, Friday eve, I start up College Parkway, windows open, sunlight and warmth for the first time this week. Headed west the traffic grew heavy, tight, nose to bumper close that could only mean an accident on Route 50 had detoured everyone onto College Parkway. Had they been headed east, I'd still be on the road. With every inch I traveled closer to home, however,I knew there could be no retreat; no west bound retreat. I could travel further east toward the sea, but no easy return to the society to the west.

At home, Sally and I go out and the rumble of the 16 wheelers and rusted pick-ups. Sally grows nervous, pulls to return home, to the back deck to warn the squirrels away, where she does not hear the squeal of breaks or smell the exhaust. I follow her. I know I am not trapped here. Though there is too much air in this narrow house for one person, there is too much to remind one. So if I stand at the very back of the deck and peer into the woods, imagine there is no end to them, imagine I migh walk until exhaustion sets the clock; I feel my soles on the spring floor and walk until dark and dig a shallow hollow and sleep in the arms of the earth. We bury ourselves, don't we? Isn't everyone mired somehow?

It's just what you need.