Say we're driving to the grocery store, or out with the dog and the kiddo on a walk around the neighborhood: sometimes I'll say to my wife, "I should have been a lawyer." Or if not a lawyer then a stand-up comedian, an actor, a musician, a visual artist, a naturalist, a farmer, a politician. It's a game I like to play: imagining what could have been. It's the writer's life. My wife, hearing me talk like this says it's not too late to be a lawyer.
Last night my wife and I took our little boy for a walk at a nearby park, and everywhere on display were the hallmarks of spring: blossoming trees and trees about to blossom, lush green grass, full rain clouds slashed here and there by bright swords of sunlight. The beauty of it all. The beauty of it all felt almost like a kind of violence, an assault on the senses--something you have to finally turn away from or else turn to salt. To think that this life goes on in winter, under scabs of snow and ice; that these blossoms are locked up in the trees' slow blood, a promise, a possibility, beyond our ability to touch; and that it all happens so suddenly, creeping up like a cloud, this phenomenon--spring--that so dwarfs our lives. And indeed how small I felt chasing my boy in the grass last night, listening to his giggles and the honking geese, and back behind it all, the wind in the pines: how small I felt, and how good.
Hi Steve. I absolutely loved your essay on black bears. I know what you mean about the yellow tag symbolizing prisoner status for Diamond Claw. I read the whole thing and sadly nodded, yes, yes, yes. If you haven't had it published yet, you should.