Over the Edge

A woman in an off-the-shoulder black gown was riding a horse on the beach. She galloped past me as the sun glared and the wind roared and grains of sand swirled around, pelting me like stinging bits of glitter. Unreality was an old love of mine, and I am lately falling into it again.

It’s a form of enchantment, a way of surfing the onslaught of experience. Hearts and heads are becoming unhinged, swinging open like doors, and everything rushes in. I yield. It’s easier that way. I roll with it. I space out and go with the dazzle, spellbound.

It happened today when I met up with a few friends in a grassy field to plant oak trees. The tall grass was disorienting, and it rippled in waves like the sea, fully surrounding us. The sun was too bright, and the wind was too intense, but we dug holes and planted saplings, and we believe there will someday be an oak grove in that place.

I inevitably thought of Willa Cather while treading that ocean of grass, because this is how it was: “I wanted to walk straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not be very far away. The light and air about me told me that the world ended here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a little farther there would only be sun and sky, and one would float off into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making slow shadows on the grass.”

Afterwards, I drove off into the brightness of sun and sky, floating away on the classical music radio station, heading home, not thinking–until I was jolted back. First came bad news texts from people I love with far worse problems than mine. Dramas within dramas, worries layered onto worries. I absorb the sadness and feel its heaviness, but what can I do? My caring is worthless.

And then, I oversteered at a cattle crossing and scraped against an iron fence, and ripped my front right tire to shreds. I was basically immobilized. Abrupt change of mood. I turned off the music.

Thankfully, there was rescue. I was helped by two Michaels and a Juan, who found tools and a tiny spare I didn’t know I had, and loosened lug nuts and repositioned the car and crawled around on the ground and acted as though it was without question their job to make sure I could get safely home with my temporary skateboard wheel. Their patience and kindness brought tears to my eyes and restored my sense of community. It was a good case for sticking with reality.

And why not? Around here, real and unreal slide around. A bobcat appears every evening and strolls along the creek. Lemons grow as big as grapefruit, and the poppies are glinting like gold. A few days ago, two boys went out in a little boat and caught fish for our dinner. We trade oranges for eggs. The wildlife camera caught a picture of luminous sprites dancing in the woods, as yet unexplained.

I dreamed that a friend gave me a book of pressed violets and poems. I hold onto such dreams, savoring them well into the day like hard candy, the kind with fruit jam inside––raspberry would be best. And then, back in my actual life, I got a letter in the mail, paper made sacred with handwritten words, dispatched across a continent. Borders blur. And that hooded oriole has returned, flickering its lemon-yellow wings, taunting me.

Am I giving up? Time used to matter; now it’s just a fable. One day, when the hills are shimmering, I may just lean back in the grass and stop seeking sense. Very soon, I think.