I’ve just returned from TLC Staff Training at Thunderhead Ranch– a period of time devoted to “working on the horse.” Wyoming’s gorgeous terrain fosters an initial wide-eyed wonderment. Shortly, however, the wide and jagged spaces prod me toward an ever more inward trek, where I wander among shadowed soul canyons. Although it takes 2 or 3 days sometimes, the nation’s news cycles fade from consciousness and the political cacophony is stilled.
For days this inward reverie shepherds me to the most intimate inner spaces and I find myself becoming oddly tender in the most surprising ways. I am changing and—resistant at first—I inevitably succumb, reveling in the change.
And, then, just as others experienced long ago in The Nam, I start to get “short.” My tour is over and the time grows nigh for my return to The World.
They ought to pipe in some Buffalo Springfield as the keys to the rental are surrendered. I can hear it as background for the shuffle through airport security in Jackson Hole and the march out onto the tarmac leading to the jetway:
“…What a field-day for the heat
For days this inward reverie shepherds me to the most intimate inner spaces and I find myself becoming oddly tender in the most surprising ways. I am changing and—resistant at first—I inevitably succumb, reveling in the change.
And, then, just as others experienced long ago in The Nam, I start to get “short.” My tour is over and the time grows nigh for my return to The World.
They ought to pipe in some Buffalo Springfield as the keys to the rental are surrendered. I can hear it as background for the shuffle through airport security in Jackson Hole and the march out onto the tarmac leading to the jetway:
“…What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singin' songs and carryin' signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down…”
Plucked out of Thunderhead’s cocoon, carted down the mountain and zippered up in an aluminum tube – I submit unto my delivery system back into The World. Squeezing into my seat on an MD Super80 or some such, I often wonder if I ought not stand, ask for quiet and then say a few words to my fellow travelers who are leaving God’s Country to be deposited back into “civilization.”
However, I always demur so as not to get the police involved.
Anyway, like I was sayin’, I’ve returned from Trial Lawyers College just in time to have my brain saturated by the hubbub surrounding Obama’s nomination of Ms. Sotomayor as the next Associate Justice of our Supreme Court. The opinions crack along the airwaves like the report from my Ruger 30.06 – painfully sharp at first, followed by a reverberating echo. Then, your ears ring for awhile as you acclimate to your new level of permanent hearing loss.
In order to lend a hand, I usually find myself wading into the Talk Soup to venture my own opinion, which is usually ill informed, partisan and loudly heartfelt.
On this occasion, I have refrained.
Instead, quietly wishing Ms. Sotomayor well, I tug at drifting memories of Wyoming landscapes and the recollected sound of my own breath as I climb alone up rocky ridges, soaking up an evolving understanding of my place in the world. Like dreams, though, these misty, tugging memories swirl and dissipate even as I long to neatly fold them into my pocket like ready cash.
Again amid the worldly clamor and nearly a week removed from Thunderhead, I reach for my pockets and that ready Wyoming cash. However, as in dreams, my reach never finds its mark. The pocket into which I have tucked this precious treasure eludes me.
Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
--- J.R.
Plucked out of Thunderhead’s cocoon, carted down the mountain and zippered up in an aluminum tube – I submit unto my delivery system back into The World. Squeezing into my seat on an MD Super80 or some such, I often wonder if I ought not stand, ask for quiet and then say a few words to my fellow travelers who are leaving God’s Country to be deposited back into “civilization.”
However, I always demur so as not to get the police involved.
Anyway, like I was sayin’, I’ve returned from Trial Lawyers College just in time to have my brain saturated by the hubbub surrounding Obama’s nomination of Ms. Sotomayor as the next Associate Justice of our Supreme Court. The opinions crack along the airwaves like the report from my Ruger 30.06 – painfully sharp at first, followed by a reverberating echo. Then, your ears ring for awhile as you acclimate to your new level of permanent hearing loss.
In order to lend a hand, I usually find myself wading into the Talk Soup to venture my own opinion, which is usually ill informed, partisan and loudly heartfelt.
On this occasion, I have refrained.
Instead, quietly wishing Ms. Sotomayor well, I tug at drifting memories of Wyoming landscapes and the recollected sound of my own breath as I climb alone up rocky ridges, soaking up an evolving understanding of my place in the world. Like dreams, though, these misty, tugging memories swirl and dissipate even as I long to neatly fold them into my pocket like ready cash.
Again amid the worldly clamor and nearly a week removed from Thunderhead, I reach for my pockets and that ready Wyoming cash. However, as in dreams, my reach never finds its mark. The pocket into which I have tucked this precious treasure eludes me.
Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
--- J.R.
Wow Boss,
ReplyDeleteI guess you have to have been there to truly understand the beauty of your words. I have been trying to convince myself as to why I don't need to make the trek up to Grad II this Summer. No cash, no time, ect... But your remind me what I am missing if I don't go.
I probably wont make it up there because of the cash flow problem, but your sharing has brought back of the TLC inside.
remy
I must second that wow. JR, that is just beautiful. The last few lines I reread about 5 times. I get the same feeling when in JH airport. I feel especially like this when in the connecting airport home. I want to yell, "Don't you people realize what truly matters in life? Stop rushing around and take the hand of the person next to you. Sit and listen."
ReplyDeleteCheryl
I used to come out of weekends of camping this way - almost dazed at the pace of the "real world."
ReplyDeleteBut,
"... what is real and what... is an illusion?"
People would ask me where I had been and I wouldn't be able to answer them. I would just see, in my mind's eye, vast deserts, miles of piney woods and views above the treeline (southern Colorado, northern New Mexico). It was almost more effort than I could muster to care about telling someone the names on the maps I had seen as we navigated. The names didn't matter. It was a pilgrimage to Nature wherever she could be found.