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Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Ode To An Altar In The Woods



Walking through the Chautauqua foothills outside Boulder, Colorado at dawn, I am grateful for the trail that makes lighter work for my feet as they carry me through this forest carpeted with pine needles & cones, between the evergreens, breathing cool mountain air, occasionally passing a patch of cactus snaking along the ground, all surrounded by expansive vistas of this land stretching out for miles, & no sound but birds & my footsteps—

I am happy here – at home. I feel the presence of this place, & appreciate the trail for what it is: a human element of the landscape – utilitarian, precise – yet still a part of this natural world, not really getting in the way.

…The power lines above are also linear & bold, & also hint at something different on the scene – but they are not so innocent. Tracing them, the eye looks down the mountain to a large brick building, & then a town: houses, cars, a campus, electric plants with smokestacks rising up…

I came here on a poetry gig for the University, where, at the same time (as chance would have it) the Republican National Debate is being held later today. Here, among the birds & trees, I can imagine very few things that would make me more embarrassed to be human.

As I reach the top of the hill, the sky grows lighter around the edges. Another few steps along the path, & suddenly a small deer bounds across the thicket. Soon another follows, bouncing over in the same way. Then with utmost dignity they walk on; I watch them silently until they meet a third (their mother, maybe?) who joins them.

It’s not much further that I find it, & stop in my tracks. A little altar on a tree stump, a delicate arrangement of stones & things from the forest floor: sticks & leaves & pine cones, all placed exquisitely – a simple yet detailed work of art only a human could have made. I catch my breath, astonished at the beauty of the thing – this bit of magic beside the path, within the woods, an act of clear communication, a place to pray, to hold my thoughts & feelings…

Kneeling at the altar, I acknowledge the directions, & bow to the creativity that flows through everything…

After a while, I take my phone out of my pocket to take a picture, giving thanks as I do for the camera phone, this remarkable piece of ingenuity only a human could have made.

That’s when I realize I am writing this poem, & asking: What is human?

When was the last time you flew in an airplane, miles high in a 75 ton piece of metal? Only a human would do that.

Boarding in Denver, the line stops just as I’m about to step on. I breathe in, deep, waiting, visualizing a blue shield around the aircraft. Finally, I step onto it, exhaling… only a human would do that, too.

Looking out the window as the plane takes off, I think about the planet as a single entity. & as the plane rises higher over the land, I feel the presence of more & more people – the horizon expands – & I imagine all of them becoming part of the earth again…

& then the ribbons of clouds, like ripples in sand, stretching out as far as the eye can see—

The stewardess asks if I need some more hot water for my tea. She’s kind; she helped me find a place to stash my guitar when I got on. She has long white hair and blue eyes that make me feel like she cares about me.

I want to live in a world where we acknowledge the sacredness of every interaction with another human being.

Funny – I actually have some of the most vulnerable moments with strangers at airports – when I play music. Airports can be such oppressive places, where everyone rushes & no one smiles, where there are thousands of people but no signs of humanity. So I try my best to bring some soul into the place by singing, & people seem to feel it. Usually some folks even come up to throw a dollar in my guitar case.

Today, the first guy who gave came over with a look of sincere concern as he dug in his pocket. I was just finishing up my first number, “This land is your land,” faking my way through the harmonica parts but playing with as much damned earnestness as I could muster – really feeling it – & no one had donated yet. He threw in whatever he found in his pocket, & without looking at it I said “thank you,” & meant it. He looked at me & said “Good luck” with an apologetic expression, then walked away. I looked down at a dime, a couple of pennies, & a button.

And then the next person gave me a twenty.

Tell the truth – I think the most powerful person in a room is the one with a guitar. I’m convinced it’s the best weapon in this war – that’s why I’m training in it, you see. Music is like kryptonite to apathy. As far as the ruling class is concerned, there’s nothing more dangerous than song, poetry, stories, art, and eye contact, because these are things that make us remember our magic – that is – our humanity.

& this, my friends, is what will save the world.