Sunlight brilliantly illuminates a branch here and there, drawing my gaze to them. Behind those highlighted branches, the leaves and needles are deep green. Compared to the leaves bathed in sunlight, the forest background is dark and foreboding. The ways the sun’s rays strike some leaves, yet barely touch the others, is mesmerizing. Light filters through the leaves to light a few spots on the trunks of big oak trees, making those strips of bark seem to almost reflect the light—the rest of it barely visible in, leaving lacey, dappled patterns of leaves on the gnarled wood. Almost anything in my sight can seem remarkable, almost magical, if I give it my undivided attention for a few minutes. Staring at the forest canopy soothes my anxiety a little; stress can slip away, if only for a few moments, when I leave it in the real world, focusing instead on fantasy in the trees.
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A Facebook friend, who lives with her golf-course designer husband in Traverse City, Michigan, periodically writes about some of her favorite places about town. Often, they involve exercise…gyms and so forth…which do not capture my interest, but for which I applaud her, nonetheless. Occasionally, though, she writes about/recommends restaurants and other places she finds worthy. I thought about her Traverse City recommendations this morning while reading a travel piece about the city in the NYT. And I thought about a high school classmate, who I have not seen since 1972 but with whom I am a Facebook friend, who recently moved to Traverse City. He extolls the virtues of the area and all its delightful offerings. I have never been to Traverse City, but I hope I will go one day. It seems like a place I would enjoy. But not in the winter.
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I have been a blameless victim in collisions at the intersection of expressing concern and invading privacy. Sometimes, though, there has been no evidence that concern was involved in the impact; the crash occurred in the midst of meddling intrusiveness. The term I remember hearing, as a kid, to describe the invasion of privacy involving car wrecks was “rubber-necking.” I think my mother called it “morbid curiosity.” That is the term I would use to name behavior in which an “interested” party inquires about my “stage” of cancer. The same words would fit when the probing inquiry (posed by the same person) asks whether I had ceased receiving treatment for cancer (hoping to verify, it seems, that treatment was futile). Such a query made by a very casual acquaintance does not merit a response. Only close friends and relatives have a legitimate, vested interest in answers to those questions. And I would happily ease their minds. But the prying vulture, hungry for carrion, need not ask again.
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Some days refuse to welcome me. They try to convince me that being awake is equivalent to aggravation. Dreamless sleep, they tell me, is far preferable to dullness and boredom, the two trademarks of consciousness. Those days—which constitute most days of late—are persuasive. When I follow their recommendations, I return to bed and fall asleep, sometimes waking two or three hours (or more) later. Then, after I wake, I realize they are right. Chunks of the day that would have crept by in dreary monotony, as if measured by a half-time clock, have disappeared. But, still, even when I tell myself I must really need my extra sleep, I feel like sleep is an excuse. An escape. A way to elude melancholia. Such is life.
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Today is Memorial Day, a day honoring members of the armed forces who died in service to the country. I sometimes think we should have one such day to honor all those who died in service to the country and another to honor those who died unnecessarily after being ordered into service to fight unjust wars and imperialistic misadventures. If we continue to avoid acknowledging those latter fatal mistakes, we will continue to make them. I hate the fact that calling attention to “bad” wars and police actions is seen by so many as unpatriotic. In my view, honoring the principles of democracy—rather than “my country, right or wrong”—is the pinnacle of patriotism.
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