The Refectory Manager

The refectory . . . A place to nourish the soul. A place to share the savory comestibles, the sweet confections, the salty condiments of the things that matter. A place to ruminate the cud of politics. A place to rant on the railings of religion. A place to arrange the flowers of sanguine beauty. A place to pause in the repose of shelter. Welcome, my friend. The Refectory Manager

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Location: College Place, Washington, United States

Friday, May 27, 2011

Asphalt

It is a path. Obviously. A denuded meandering of an indentation of spongy forest floor flanked with shimmering droplet-covered shades of chlorophyll green. On the left, on the right, rising steeply, yet another ubiquitous margin of the undulations of the Blues. The air is filled with the unvarying purring of Tiger Creek. Little birds, frantically distraught with the infringement on their nesting territory, scold with ferociousness. It is a path. I follow steps that have gone before.

The knee is painful. That damn Lipitor. Side effects of gout. Toes. Feet. Ankles. All vigorously protesting the repetitive thudding down on that narrow trail. The weakness. The vertigo. The inherent instability on uneven, cliff-clinging stretches. The realization that any redemption of the ambience of this experience can be a self-imposed cemetery rest.

Thoughts in my head, bouncing around like gumdrops in a lotto machine. Why did I choose to come on this hike. I fell once before. Bad fall. Because I didn't actually break a leg, I staggered out of that ravine rather than being hoisted between heaven and hell on the end of helicopter tether. But alas, I did choose, and now trudging behind three botanists on a Native Plant Society hike.

When the botanists stop, bend over, peer at the loveliness of golden blobs of pollen clinging tenaciously on wavering stamens, or assess the chartreuseness of sepals shyly hiding beneath the florescence of showy blooms, and they then fumble through the pocket wild-flower guide-book looking for confirmation of their discovery, I would catch up. For some specimens, the leader would ask me to document the flower with a photograph. My then fumbling with exposure to get the light source just right. Manually setting the aperture to control the depth of field. Adjusting the ISO temperature to quicken the shutter speed to freeze a flower's swaying in the very gentle breeze. The bending and contorting of my screaming joints to get a fresh perspective. The anticipative listening for the fake shutter click on the digital single-lens reflex camera to confirm the image had been captured. The recording of twelve million plus pixels of magnetic spots rendering the stark physics of color, texture, pattern, shape. Some images to be later Photoshopped into minimalist gray-scale monochrome representations of the beauty of line and shadow infused with a texture that only The Council of the Matrons of Nature could devise.

The botanists left the trail. A "bridal-veil falls" of a very hidden tributary to Tiger Creek was two- three hundred feet off to the left. I could not follow. The route simply too unstable for me. But through the swirl of random foliage I did manage a discrete peek of the flowing veil of a bashful bride.

The gumdrops were ricocheting again. Epiphany. Not the religious connotation of old camel-driven magic men and their recognition of swaddled babies in borrowed mangers. Rather, the secular rendition of a sudden leap in new understanding. Or perhaps simply the recognition, maybe even the concession, that things have changed.

Deep within the morning shadows of a late spring forest. That dampness. The flourishing mosses. The monocots spiking forth, swelling on the tips of slender leaves. The prepubescent period of life marked by increased growth and associated with purity, innocence, and simplicity of life. Immergence of life endemic. An expectation of life renewal. To thrust forth the flaunting of vacillating blooms of yellow, purple, pink, lavender, red, white, blue and the infinite subtleties of the amalgamation of colors between. To disperse the perfumes of enticement compelling insects to unknowingly consummate the intimate act of sex of an immobile plant.

Deep within the morning shadows of a late spring forest. The dankness. Decay. Rot. What to the casual observer would be deemed to be death. Broken dreams of trees now prostrating as lush condos for bugs and slugs and creepy-crawlies that boogie in the night.

I tell the group I cannot proceed on.

Return. I must.

Then to go back over and to feel again the resilience of that old dead growth denuded path. Sense the snap, crackle pop of old twigs underfoot. Release the snag to the britches by insistent briars. Sooth the scratch made by thorns still relentlessly shielding old vines. To realize this path is but a circular metaphor of the cycle of life.

The epiphany.

My acceptance that I shall not pass this way again.

The realization that other paths are markers too in yet other manifestations of life. Paths of a different nature. Paths were feeble old men can frolic with walkers. Paths where young men push their babies in buggies.

Now, a denuded meandering path of asphalt. Sometimes flanked with shimmering droplet -covered shades of chlorophyll green. Sometimes sullied with the shards of throw-awayness egocentricity.

Asphalt too is a path.

Obviously.


The Refectory Manager

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