The fingers of my right hand were splayed open on her stomach, my palm resting there gently. Long strands of her dark hair were running through the crooks of the fingers on my other hand. Smiling softly, I bent my head down and kissed her lips.
Pulling back, I slowly dragged my fingers across her belly. She began to laugh.
“Ticklish?” I asked. “Yes,” she admitted.
I held my hand steady, letting it rise and fall with her breath. After a moment, she began to laugh again.
“What?” I protested. “I’m not even moving it!”
“It isn’t that,” she said.
“Then what is it?”
“At last, you are caressing me like your guitar.”
I remembered her feigned jealousy of my instrument when I had sent her the picture long ago. Unable to stop myself, I began laughing with her.
After a few seconds, our laughter spent, I gazed into her dark eyes.
“But your music is far sweeter to me,” I said, smirking at the cliché.
And leaning down, I began kissing her lips again.
Returning
I put my car into park, and I roll up the windows. I turn the engine off, and get out of the car -- locking the doors behind me. I am standing in a small gravel parking lot, at the end of a long gravel road. There is a large sign in front of my car that displays the flora that can be found in the area. There are some woods off to my left, and open fields on the other three sides of the lot. Some small sand dunes can be seen poking through the tall grass on the crest of a low hill beyond the sign, about three hundred feet away.
Around twenty-five years ago I sat here in the back of a pickup truck, waiting to start my work day. It was my first real job, working on a vegetable farm for a local farmer. In the mornings we would ride in the back of his pickup truck to this very spot, and then wait while he warmed up the tractor so we could begin picking vegetables for the day. Back then the field to my right was full of cucumbers.
Now the land is overgrown, having been reclaimed by the county as a nature preserve for prairie wildlife. When I worked here I had always wondered what lay over the ridge towards the river, but I never actually took the time to find out. Now I know. I walk over to the corner of the parking lot, and follow a small path through the grass. In the dry mud I notice the tracks of a wild turkey, a few deer, and a large dog. I follow it along the edge of the woods to the crest of the hill, where it turns back to the right again. After walking a short distance the path brings me to the sand dunes.
I walk over to the tallest dune and sit down. The sky is overcast, and even darker clouds threaten from the south. In defiance of the coming rain, I open my pocket copy of "The Zen Teaching of Huang Po" and begin reading. Small gnats buzz around my head, and the dry grass pricks into my back. As I try to read the gnats became more aggressive. I remember a Haiku by the Zen master Taigi:
You have to admire the dedication of a man who can meditate while mosquitoes continuously bite him. But I am not a Zen master, nor am I really even a student of Zen. I’m just a normal guy looking for some wisdom and guidance, and I’m getting eaten alive by these damned gnats. I soon realize that I will be unable to enjoy my reading, not only from physical discomfort but also from the mental unrest that I haven't been able to shake all day. I close the tiny book, shove it in my pocket, and stand up. I walk over to the crest of the ridge.
Below me, at the bottom of a long, grassy hill, is a set of train tracks. About another half mile or so beyond that flows the Mississippi River. Tall trees obscure my view of the near shore. On the other side of the river, way back on the horizon, is a refinery. The steam from the various chimneys rises up until it blends with the low clouds hanging above. Far away to my right I can make out one hole of the new golf course. The gnats are not so bad here, as the breeze on the crest of the hill seems to be keeping them at bay.
After taking in the view for a moment I close my eyes. I clear my mind and focus on my breathing.
In… out… in… out... in… out….
Somewhere in the distance I hear a flock of crows. From the woods I hear songbirds, singing as though it was a bright sunny day rather than minutes from a thunderstorm. I admire their dedication as much as Taigi's. Crickets chirp in the grass all around me. I hear a voice calling out from the golf course, but I am unable to make out what it is saying. I return my focus to my breathing, and I let the sounds around me flow through my mind and out again.
I will not obtain any solutions to my problems today, but for a short while I am truly in the moment.
For a short while, I have returned.
Around twenty-five years ago I sat here in the back of a pickup truck, waiting to start my work day. It was my first real job, working on a vegetable farm for a local farmer. In the mornings we would ride in the back of his pickup truck to this very spot, and then wait while he warmed up the tractor so we could begin picking vegetables for the day. Back then the field to my right was full of cucumbers.
Now the land is overgrown, having been reclaimed by the county as a nature preserve for prairie wildlife. When I worked here I had always wondered what lay over the ridge towards the river, but I never actually took the time to find out. Now I know. I walk over to the corner of the parking lot, and follow a small path through the grass. In the dry mud I notice the tracks of a wild turkey, a few deer, and a large dog. I follow it along the edge of the woods to the crest of the hill, where it turns back to the right again. After walking a short distance the path brings me to the sand dunes.
I walk over to the tallest dune and sit down. The sky is overcast, and even darker clouds threaten from the south. In defiance of the coming rain, I open my pocket copy of "The Zen Teaching of Huang Po" and begin reading. Small gnats buzz around my head, and the dry grass pricks into my back. As I try to read the gnats became more aggressive. I remember a Haiku by the Zen master Taigi:
Zazen:
fat mosquitoes
everywhere.
You have to admire the dedication of a man who can meditate while mosquitoes continuously bite him. But I am not a Zen master, nor am I really even a student of Zen. I’m just a normal guy looking for some wisdom and guidance, and I’m getting eaten alive by these damned gnats. I soon realize that I will be unable to enjoy my reading, not only from physical discomfort but also from the mental unrest that I haven't been able to shake all day. I close the tiny book, shove it in my pocket, and stand up. I walk over to the crest of the ridge.
Below me, at the bottom of a long, grassy hill, is a set of train tracks. About another half mile or so beyond that flows the Mississippi River. Tall trees obscure my view of the near shore. On the other side of the river, way back on the horizon, is a refinery. The steam from the various chimneys rises up until it blends with the low clouds hanging above. Far away to my right I can make out one hole of the new golf course. The gnats are not so bad here, as the breeze on the crest of the hill seems to be keeping them at bay.
After taking in the view for a moment I close my eyes. I clear my mind and focus on my breathing.
In… out… in… out... in… out….
Somewhere in the distance I hear a flock of crows. From the woods I hear songbirds, singing as though it was a bright sunny day rather than minutes from a thunderstorm. I admire their dedication as much as Taigi's. Crickets chirp in the grass all around me. I hear a voice calling out from the golf course, but I am unable to make out what it is saying. I return my focus to my breathing, and I let the sounds around me flow through my mind and out again.
I will not obtain any solutions to my problems today, but for a short while I am truly in the moment.
For a short while, I have returned.
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