April in Athens
The sun does not seem to be in such a hurry to dip beneath the horizon these days, and he skies are not as restless as their March brethren. Finding a secluded corner of repose on a sun drenched stone amongst the old oak trees of campus green I am infused with a sense of tranquility that has eluded me throughout the harsh winter. Seeing the gentle blossoms of the dogwood trees break away from their rose colored buds brings a sense of warmth and release that I have longed for after months of shivering myself to sleep in the cold Ohio woods.
A couple walks past as I quietly scribble about in my journal. The sweet smell of the blossoms is shared by a young man with shaggy hair and a girl in a long skirt and headband that frames her gentle smile. A smile that seems appreciative of him taking the time to pull down the tiny branch and share an evanescent moment together. The arc of this bending branch is mimicked in nature on the same tiny dogwood by a greedy squirrel lugging the crumbled remnants of a discarded donut to his corner of repose.
Nervous exchange students snap digital photos of only slightly less nervous squirrels scampering away with their deep-fried bounty. The joy and curiosity on their appreciative face melts my icy cold cynicism like the fat yellow sun warming the rolling hills around me. Three girls in three athletic t-shirts juggle three styrafoam cups of expensive trendy ice cream with three restless cell phones nearby. Three sets of dorm room keys jangle from their necks on three sets of thick corporate-sponsored shoelaces.
The squirrel hangs upside down on a barren branch of an oak tree with the prized donut dangling precariously from his mouth. The carbon copies giggle back and forth as the Vaudeville routine reaches its climax. Longing for the flashbulbs of the Asian press nature’s street performers dance for their discarded boutique ice cream cones thrown in their tip jars that strangely resemble garbage cans.
The girls leave and the squirrels carry on their business. I remain in the sun, jotting away in my journal, a stenographer in the courtroom of my own life, testifying in front of no judge but myself. I find it sad that the squirrels have more luck foraging from the overflowing garbage cans neglected by campus grounds crews than the fruits of the stately oaks towering overhead. Are they sellouts amongst squirrel purists? Are they viewed with contempt by squirrel friends who stayed in the secluded forest and fought the good fight as they seek out the fast life of discarded French fries and exploding flashbulbs?
Is it a choice made by each individual squirrel to live this type of life or was it the circumstances of their birth that brought them here? I have always wondered if there was an intense screening and interview process for those extremely successful bears that fish juicy salmon from raging rivers on National Geographic nature specials. Did the bears rummaging through dumpsters in national parks just make some poor decisions as cubs that have led them to this less than glamorous end? Are these cute squirrels frolicking about before me just the greaser squirrels that did not pay attention during acorn gathering class in favor of smoking cigarettes and talking about cars?
As I scribble away these thoughts in my journal for few to read, I often wonder if I am fishing salmon from the crystalline rivers of my own life or rummaging through the dumpsters of real lives lived by others. I have come to learn that this calm of April is ever fleeting. Turbulent thunderstorms of despair and loss roll over the horizon of time robbing the gentle white blossoms from the boughs of the tiny dogwood. I can do nothing but freeze this moment in time. For I will certainly need it some day.
A couple walks past as I quietly scribble about in my journal. The sweet smell of the blossoms is shared by a young man with shaggy hair and a girl in a long skirt and headband that frames her gentle smile. A smile that seems appreciative of him taking the time to pull down the tiny branch and share an evanescent moment together. The arc of this bending branch is mimicked in nature on the same tiny dogwood by a greedy squirrel lugging the crumbled remnants of a discarded donut to his corner of repose.
Nervous exchange students snap digital photos of only slightly less nervous squirrels scampering away with their deep-fried bounty. The joy and curiosity on their appreciative face melts my icy cold cynicism like the fat yellow sun warming the rolling hills around me. Three girls in three athletic t-shirts juggle three styrafoam cups of expensive trendy ice cream with three restless cell phones nearby. Three sets of dorm room keys jangle from their necks on three sets of thick corporate-sponsored shoelaces.
The squirrel hangs upside down on a barren branch of an oak tree with the prized donut dangling precariously from his mouth. The carbon copies giggle back and forth as the Vaudeville routine reaches its climax. Longing for the flashbulbs of the Asian press nature’s street performers dance for their discarded boutique ice cream cones thrown in their tip jars that strangely resemble garbage cans.
The girls leave and the squirrels carry on their business. I remain in the sun, jotting away in my journal, a stenographer in the courtroom of my own life, testifying in front of no judge but myself. I find it sad that the squirrels have more luck foraging from the overflowing garbage cans neglected by campus grounds crews than the fruits of the stately oaks towering overhead. Are they sellouts amongst squirrel purists? Are they viewed with contempt by squirrel friends who stayed in the secluded forest and fought the good fight as they seek out the fast life of discarded French fries and exploding flashbulbs?
Is it a choice made by each individual squirrel to live this type of life or was it the circumstances of their birth that brought them here? I have always wondered if there was an intense screening and interview process for those extremely successful bears that fish juicy salmon from raging rivers on National Geographic nature specials. Did the bears rummaging through dumpsters in national parks just make some poor decisions as cubs that have led them to this less than glamorous end? Are these cute squirrels frolicking about before me just the greaser squirrels that did not pay attention during acorn gathering class in favor of smoking cigarettes and talking about cars?
As I scribble away these thoughts in my journal for few to read, I often wonder if I am fishing salmon from the crystalline rivers of my own life or rummaging through the dumpsters of real lives lived by others. I have come to learn that this calm of April is ever fleeting. Turbulent thunderstorms of despair and loss roll over the horizon of time robbing the gentle white blossoms from the boughs of the tiny dogwood. I can do nothing but freeze this moment in time. For I will certainly need it some day.
posted by Yonder Vittles at 8:57 PM
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