Home on the range on timing

Timing can be good. It can also be lousy. Missed trains, missed job opportunities. Missed dreams. I’ve heard from more than one guy friend that he was bummed the " girl of his dreams" had found someone. Yet, he never asked her out, couldn’t express the feelings until it was too late, sometimes remaining silent for months or even years, growing only older of bone and pride.

When we were kids, we ran around with time simply carried in our pocket, as dense and round as a coin, many coins, that jingle as we ran. We are told by some grownups that we soon will have to grow up and leave childish dreams behind, but we don’t listen, because we have nothing in our experience to gauge their caution by, to give the portent of a structured future any range and meaning.


Besides we are too busy, just doing things that kids do, even if that was just sitting and waiting for hours for a fish to bite a tiny hook.

As adults we are governed by time, watches, and cell phones and alarm clocks and schedules. Mechanical clocks and biological ones. We rush headlong into actions without considerations, as if the sheer and simple arranged succession of days was not fast enough, constituted without capacity enough, so that weeks and months and years of living had to be condensed down into one moment, and it is today, now. We as a society, and as individuals, do not seem to be able to closely watch and wait for that which is worth waiting for. We feverishly work for things we do not need and we vote without thought for those that promise us prosperity without effort.

Everything is based on now. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200. What do you mean you haven’t got a date, got a spouse, a house, a baby, and we need to talk to you about those 25 pounds. Everything is on a time schedule and it’s not necessarily ours. Meals are microwaved, we speed date, express wash, Kwik-e-Mart, and you know what? We find that in rushing towards what we’re supposed to want, we missed the things that can truly change our lives.

Go out into that rapid and fading back country that is retreating as the tide is, walk out into that land that was ours, is ours, field and forest, bayou and orchard, grain and dust, harbor and thicket. Go on out and decide what is important and what is not, among all the flotsam and jetsam in your life, where it is going and how much control you’re going to give to others over it.

Go out into that land that still carries the tracks of those that crossed this nation to build, to grow; men, and women and children, bringing with them their tools and trades, goods and gear, by steamer, by wagon wheel by train, by big slow rivers that sometimes revealed no current and sometimes ran backwards, running not to hide, but to dream, all the way to the ocean. It was a land on which a man ate only by the sweat of his brow, the ability to plow a straight furrow or chop down a limb without removing one of his own. It was a land of milk and honey, steelhead and gold, which offered itself up on rare occasion from the earth as compensation for torn lives and broken bones, payment which neither man nor his government proffered for the weak or the foolish.

There is so much that might have been, could have been, wrong place, wrong time, so boundless in capacity is man’s imagination to burn and scatter away the refuse of probability, leaving only yearning and dreams. No time or space or distance can keep you from that what matters, even if to the world, your dreams of your life is and what kind of world you wish to live in, are little more than transparent scratchings on depthless glass.

I’ll sit by my brothers bedside as the chemicals go into his body that may or may not kill the cancer that’s consuming him with fire that bears no warmth. There is the steady whoosh from machinery in the room, the movement of unsleeping blood, the intake of air. The room is simple, but its corners and edges hold the quiet, complex lives of two very secret people, who long ago escaped from a place that held only pain, there in that season between thunder and any thought of rain, finding their own shelter, with a new family. Now, we have no season, the hospital room alternating day and night in a vacuum in which light is only a hope.

Then carve your name on that little piece of wood, carve the name of the one you fight for, or simply carve " Freedom", the letters bearing one clear unfettered voice that sounds out, through the delicate attenuation of your actions, through the ringing bells of your worth, through the tone that is the weight of silent guns – I WAS here, I AM here, there IS still time.

Then go back home to your home and your memories. A heart shaped locket with a young woman and a man in an airman’s uniform, months before war separated them for years. A shirt that could fit a thousand others but which only one wore so long that you will forever know its wearer by the simple feel of the fabric underneath your fingertips, the echo of sandalwood that clings to blue cotton. Go back to your present. A photo on the wall of those who still live to tell you their stories, to hold firm your past, memories that are borne on the air that you still breathe, invisible, yet essential as air itself. Go back to your future. A flag on a wall, one for which your loved ones gave up much of their life for, or even, life itself.