Vespers

After last week's grim visit to the eastward road, I found myself unsettled in a way I could not shake. The place had got into my bones, like a sickness does. The sense of dread grew and grew. Everything felt bad. I began to wonder if my life had any purpose besides fear and sorrow.

Yesterday, I realized I'd had enough. It had to stop. I longed for something, a piece of magic, some undeniable sign that a universe existed beyond this mood.

If a landscape had got me into this, it made sense that a landscape might get me out. I decided to go west this time. Things had always felt a bit friendlier out there. Maybe I could have a chat with the Genius Loci while I was as it. Ask if there was any meaning left in the world.

It was nearly as cold and no less cloudy than it was on the 20th, but somehow the light in that direction looked golden and warm. Perhaps it was a good sign. It was nearly sunset, though, so whatever I'd meant to do must be done quickly. Remote country roads are not the best place to be after dark.

I took a right and headed out on my journey. I wasn't sure how far I was going, but figured I'd know when I got there.

There was a time when this road was almost as familiar as my own. Childhood friends lived here once. Old signs still marked the place of lovers' meetings. But that was long ago, and the memories of it squeezed my heart. So much time passed, so many people gone. There's a certain loneliness that comes to a tourist spot when the season is over, a sort of silence, and this road is no exception.

In all the times I'd come, there is one day that stands out in my mind. It was all autumn silence then, too, the mist, the color, the leaves and the rocks. Even the river was hushed. I was suffering a broken heart that day, the kind that never really mends. The radio was playing Peter Murphy's Cuts You Up and suddenly it all made sense. A haunted hour and a haunted song. I'd never forgotten it.

This came to mind as I was driving, that teenage heartsick ache. Time seemed to slide out from under me. I didn't intend to be maudlin, but suddenly I was desperate to hear that song again. It was the right sort of day for it. But unless I could call music from the air, it wasn't likely to happen. 30 year old alt-rock doesn't have much place on the radio.

At the fork in the road, I took another right. Here was the stone gate at the first crossing, marking where Susan used to live. There was the winding drive that once lead to Melissa's home. We used to hang out there, Missy and Teal and me. We'd sit on the river bank, the canyon echoing laughter.

I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. The whole point in coming here had been to quietly listen to the landscape, but the further I drove, the more I was stricken with old memories - this house, that cliff, that bend in the road. I was losing the thread.

The sun was going down. I pulled into a gravel lay-by to park and walked down to the water. As I did, the red leaf of a sycamore floated down and seemed to hover motionless in front of me far longer than it should have. I thought, well, then, this must be the place.

 

I sat and listened, and watched the sunset colors on the water. All was peaceful. I saw no visions nor heard any voices, only the sound of the river. Still, I did not feel alone. Then somehow I knew it was time to go, so I got up and -somewhat regretful to leave - went back to the car.

When I got in, I don't have to tell you what song was playing on the radio, do I? That it was Cuts You Up by Peter Murphy? Because of course it was, and you may have seen it coming but it was an complete and utter shock to me. And that's how I knew, with absolute certainty, that my strange, silent prayer for meaning had been heard.

Maybe it seems like a little thing, but it was much more than enough. 

Sometimes it's enough to know that someone is listening.