I looked out the window this morning to a dense white mist that had condensed and froze on the bushes in the front garden and obscured the houses across the street. It was warm for January, and as I walked down the shoulder of the bypass I felt I was inside a massive phantom grown tired and resting. Tractor-trailers passed in a rush of headlights and wind, the roar of spirits loud and coarse in their confusion, as if you could scream away the mist.
I wonder where I am going. Where I am now is a place of open, unfathomable sky and hills just high enough to close the land in around you. Visibility anywhere is limited to several kilometres, and crowning every rise is a subdivision where the houses line the streets as passengers would in a train or an audience in a theatre, the rows running gentle and compact, and yet who fit their owners like an oversized suit, all straight lines and space. The houses show a quiet and reserved face, hiding within a secret warmth and glow.
I moved back here last September, in retreat from the city and the must and the rubble. I admitted to myself that I had burned out, that what I was feeling inside was a corruption eating its way to size. It was the only thing growing, as I was at a loss and defeated. I told myself this to help swallow the shame. I also told myself that Tom, who had been sick nearly all year, could use the company and an extra hand around the house.
I forgot things. I forgot how to make decisions, like should I apply to this job? I forgot what things meant, and the more I forgot the less I was sure I had known to begin with. I went on a 10-day silent retreat and learned how to be at peace in a storm; sometime since then I’ve become a mite on the trunk of an ironwood, trying to make sense of the world, and I am learning to be okay with that, too.
Stories, good stories, set out to tell us what this thing is, this life, and what it means and what can be done with it. They tell us what it means to be a human being. They’re tricky, though, because a story will never say this outright, will never tell you, “this is what you mean.” Instead it says, “here,” and shows us a piece of the world, and if we look closely enough we can see the whole world; and if we look closer still we can see ourselves.
This is what I am going to do here. I am going to look closely into stories, in any medium, for meaning and insight. I am going to do this because I need to, because this is where I hope I can plant my roots and find nourishment; and so I know where I will die, and to what I will return to when I go.
