Explosion Season Comes to an End
by Chris Hess
[I] don't seem to have much to say these days. There may be seasons when we are exploding with good things that should be said. These seasons usually follow seasons of not having much to say. Those are times when I wish I listened more. I should be listening more these days. About those times when we're exploding with good things...I want to recognize when those things are gone and I'm just spewing nonsense. If we are honest with ourselves, we can tell when we've hit that point...if we're willing to listen to what we're saying and the force we're having to use to come up with it and push it out our mouths. If we are honest with ourselves, we will know when we're dragging the Kingdom up a hill. I want to be honest with myself.
now when we speak, we risk an avalanche. but that's not enough now to reroute our plans. i believe that we've got it wrong, got it wrong. we'll realize when it's said and done, said and done, that in our words we've lost so much more than we've ever won. the aftermath is cracked wood where fences stood and the broken bones of our childhood. in our trembling fear, we put words inside God's mouth. we cover our tracks and get so proud of ourselves, we get so proud of ourselves, we get so proud of ourselves when we get away. ~ Ryan O'Neal, Sleeping At Last, from the song "Unmade"
Dragging things up hills can be exhausting. The hangover I experience when I force things out my mouth is awful. I usually feel it in the shower the next morning. It seems that's where clarity arrives. It's an interesting thing to sit and write something when there is not much to say. When explosion season has come to an end and the season of listening hopefully starts. When you have to quote song lyrics because they are the only thing entering your head. I'm not one to quote song lyrics. But these were a catalyst. I was mowing the lawn, listening to Sleeping At Last. Those words were streaming into my earholes and I was trying to digest them, listening to them again, trying to digest them, listening to them again, trying to digest them, listening to them again, trying to digest them, listening to them again. Then I ran over the cord to the mower. My mower is electric, like the kind old ladies use because they don't like the smell of gasoline on their hands. I ran over the cord to the mower. It stopped and was silent. I stood there listening.
Leave a comment
Comments will be approved before showing up.
Also in Ruminate Blog
I start over, trying different tricks, until I can prop each bloom in a semi-erect position. How ridiculous. I know it will be useless. I am perfectly conscious of setting up a sad masquerade. What is this pathetic comedy for? My own sake, I guess. These sunflowers are in agony, maybe already dead, but I have to pretend I’m doing the impossible to rescue them. I’m doing it, no matter the cost.
That day we explored this passage in Brothers Karamazov, I saw in my professor a humbling acknowledgment—that there are things which belief fails to fully reconcile. That something like suffering and the weight we feel because of it seem, at times, incompatible with the love and reconciliation we so desperately seek in our horizontal and vertical lives.
The radar confirms what I sense. An amorphous green mass, outlined with yellow and red, tilts from the well of Texas to the roof of Michigan. I wait for it—the sky like a pressure cooker, eager and dangerous with its current of heat and force.