Two’s
Watching for Owls
“Watch for owls.”
I’m pulling out of the driveway on to the moonlit gravel road. Leaning forward in my seat, I look through the windshield, driving slowly, my headlights on bright to illumine the fence posts that line this stretch.
We’ve driven less than 100 yards and Jeb is officially asleep. It’s nearly 2 hours past his bedtime, but that’s what you get to do – even on a school night – when it’s your birthday.
The Bohemian is in the passenger seat at my side, his eyes quietly scanning the outlying fields. This is a one lane road. No street lights. No sounds but for the hum of my motor and the stones that get kicked up by my wheels.
I’ve driven down this road in the dark many nights, often getting the gift of a sighting. Powerful and silent, the white glow of owl wings swishing through my headlights. Once I paused just short of a night-time sentry perched upon the fence, allowing my lights to observe it, its head turning 180 degrees to peer inside my window.
On this track, we can only see as far as my headlights will reach. Beyond that is dark, only lit by stars and moon.
“You should write a poem about looking for owls on this road,” says the Bohemian.
“Mmm. I like that idea. I need a post for the Archives tomorrow,” I say.
He smiles in the dark. “Well that’s going to be about Jeb’s birthday party.”
“Maybe both.”
full of kabobs and chocolate cake
our hair still smokey
from a starlight fire
there are three
driving quietly
down the dark
one lane road
with a gallon of honey
and a sleeping boy
in the back seat
this man and I
we watch for owls
eight years ago
I was alone
when the water broke
and the labor began
bringing life into my arms
to grow
in time
and measure
“How tall am I? I think I’m at your chin!”
tonight we can only see
as far as the light will reach
just beyond its cast
shadowed fields
and dampened grass
soak in shooting stars
realms
too delicate and wild
to be revealed
for now
this man and I
we watch for owls
and he thinks I am a poet
that could possibly tell you
about the magic
of seeking signs
with dim light in darkness
about the beauty of the quiet road
a birthday
my sleeping son
the feeling of an open hand
resting on my knee
I lean closer
to the window
look up
for flutters
in the light
Rock Paper Scissors
“Kámen, nůžky, papír!”
Jeb, the Bohemian and I are throwing our hands in the circle. Fists, flattened hands and peace signs.
This is Roshambo. Also known as Rock, Paper, Scissors and apparently this ancient game is universal.
Jeb’s absorbent eight-year old mind has grasped these foreign words with ease and he not only exclaims them with solid vigor, he remembers them all day long.
Me, on the other hand, I’m in alien territory and my thirty-eight year old brain is dull.
In the evening at the dinner table, roshambo comes up again in our conversation.
“Ok, so it’s kámen…something…and then papír, right?” I ask.
Jeb laughs. “Nůžky!”
The Bohemian smiles.
“Right. Kámen, nůžky, papír. Ok, I got it.”
But I don’t’ feel like I’ve got it. This foreign language thing is slow going.
I wish I spoke five languages. The Bohemian speaks English, Polish, some Russian and I think he’d do alright in Germany.
Me, I grew up in California, exposed my whole life to Spanish. I studied it for years in school and I fantasize that if I lived in a Spanish-speaking country, I’d become fluent enough to start dreaming in that language. Though for now, I stumble clumsily through the most simple of Spanish conversation.
And then there’s Czech. Now that is truly foreign. These beautiful sounds that emerge from the mouth of the Bohemian have letter combinations I’ve never heard before. I am in a strange and unknown linguistic land where the exotic sounds wash over me in rolling ‘r’s’ and lilting ‘ch’s’ (although I think ‘ch’ is actually a letter in the alphabet that sounds sort of English ‘h’-ish and the English ‘ch’ sound is actually denoted in Czech by a ‘c’ with some cool diacritical mark. Whew. Anyway…). Just listening, I’m swirled in a spin where I cannot grasp the letters and hold them.
Give me a Czech word and half the time I cannot repeat it back correctly. There are subtle sounds, new combinations. Altogether different letters in the alphabet. ‘R’s I can’t roll. ‘H’s made from deep in the throat.
I fumble like a typical American. The Bohemian is patient, like his typical self.
My head is thick. My mind conditioned. I’m not used to something so radically different. I am realizing that some things need to be very close and in my face to really grasp, especially the unfamiliar.
WHOOOOHOOOO!
Ok. Staying ever-present in the Now and ever-dedicated to offering you the real and true Daily Chronicles, I will report the moments as they occur.
No sooner did I punctuate that last sentence (“…especially the unfamiliar”), ready to describe to you the moments when I shine most truly in foreign terrain, than Jeb emerges from his bedroom – 5:20am – reporting that he is ill.
My Mother hat is donned instantly in a flurry of thermometers, juice, cold wash cloths and lavender oil. He does have a fever. Emails are sent to Dad and today’s work clients. No school. And Jeb’s birthday celebration scheduled for tomorrow is now in question.
It is currently 6:08am. Still dark. Jeb rests. I reach to complete a posting for the Archives while still staying attentive by his side.
Where was I going with all this?
Rock, paper scissors.
The universal game of random chance that transcends all language.
My exploration into new territory.
Attempts to learn the subtleties.
Practicing grace among detours.
A reminder to have fun with the game.
For the Archives 