Esteemed Reader
A clod of earth, you’ll
not rise in the air
Unless you break and become mere dust.
—Rumi
We were speeding down the highway in my old truck. It’s noisy, particularly
with the splash and spray of the wet pavement. We were fairly shouting to
be heard. The sky was intermittently cloudy and really cloudy with great gusts
blowing sheets of water, and pushing the car toward the edge of the road.
We were talking about religion as the countryside blurred past; as we emerged
from shadow and fog into greater clarity; as we watched the gray-brown autumn
flatland of western New York became hilly somewhere near Herkimer. It was
a relief to travel through a notch and see an expanse of green valley and
hills stretched to the horizon’s edge which seemed to blend into the
many-layered and textured sky with bright and dark hues and cloud textures
from cotton to cottage cheese to ethereal blends of ghostly vapor.
We were talking about tying the knot, because the word, religion, is derived
from some Latin words which mean, literally, “to tie the knot, again.”
“I don’t want to be tied to anything,” she almost wined. We
were passing a semi and she seemed to be looking for her reflection in the
shiny chrome hubcaps.
“You are always tied to something,” I countered. Knight to king
four, I thought, likening my quick answer to a confident move on the chess
board.
We passed a yellow Volkswagen nouveau-beetle. A curtain of dirty-blond dreadlocks
filled the window. The dreaded driver seemed to be leaning over adjusting
the radio. At least half the stations around Herkimer are some denomination
of Christian radio.
“The first step,” I continued, as she had not countered, “is
to realize that you are always tied to—always serving—something.
Having realized that, you can begin to choose what it is you will tie yourself
to.”
She turned sharply, and I had to look away from the shiny road to meet her
stern gaze. “If you’re going to be pedantic, you had better be specific!”
She was almost yelling.
I felt my brow furrow, as I pretended to study the traffic pattern ahead.
But she was right, and I racked my brain for some personal evidence in support
of my philosophy.
“Well… there’s right now…,” I began, lamely. “I
am tied to the idea of expressing this idea to you… but it’s not
the only idea I could be tied to. For instance, I could be tied to the intention
of understanding how you see things, instead of making you understand me.
Then I might not try so hard to convince you of how I see things…”
She spoke something softly which I couldn’t hear over the din of the
road. I replayed the sound, keeping context in mind, until I knew what she
had said: “That would be nice.”
I listened for what would follow; listened to the slap of rubber on pavement;
listened to the windshield pushing the fog. We were already in New Bremen.
Jason Stern