Walk the Path of the Everness

Walk the path of the Everness.

I see what changes, and what will forever remain unchanged.

An insatiable thirst for walking, moving, passing and take in every detail as I go. For now, the paths open to my restless feet are few, so I look to detail to keep it interesting, what may evade another’s eyes, but which adds a layer of richness to those who care to look closer.

It’s a rather drab little house, it’s not dilapidated nor derelict just a little ramshackle, like comfy worn-out boots that’ve trekked the many miles of a long life. The sage green paint flakes off the front door and the shutters, revealing the hard, oak wood beneath. Reddish, crusty, rusting hinges that squeak, squeak, squeak in any breeze passing.

I’d probably walk right by, my spoiled eyes cruising the street for sweeter architectural eye-candy, if it were not for the massive, ancient-looking trumpet vine that has devoured the little raised veranda, and has slowly snaked and wound its’ way ever-upwards, steadily swallowing the entire balcony, and then enshrouding the bedroom windows on the north-eastern side, blocking out any hope of morning sunlight waking sweet-dreaming sleepers. That whole section of the house is swathed in luscious, shiny, green leaves and bright orange blooms, their subtle scent sailing on breezes as I slow my steps near this odd little place, pausing to pat the furry heads of the cats sitting on the low, ivy smothered brick wall, dropping to my haunches to reach those pointy-eared heads that curiously poke out between the vertical slats of the chained gate.

Softly scratching under the tilted-up chins of these little balls of fur, affords me a quick scan of the front door and the lower windows with exterior shutters lowered to about ten or fifteen centimetres above the sill, just open enough for the resident free-loaders to squeeze their way out and in again, night or day. The meagre front yard is scattered with little plastic and metal bowls, some with fresh water, some dusty with dead flies, others with dried cat food, crusty little left-over bits stuck on the sides. There are a few clay pots with long dead plants, crisp, dry leaves hanging onto bone-like stems, unrecognizable or classable in their now forever parched state. No grass, nor flower beds, just hard-packed earth that rarely gets muddy. The cats seem well-fed and generally healthy, as they laze and soak up the sun on the wall, the sills, and the shallow steps leading up to the front door.

I wonder how many cats inhabit this little house, any number free to come and go as they please. All the local, wandering felines most probably call this home, at least temporarily, most definitely during the long, cold winters.

Are the two-legged inhabitants able to feed and care for them all? They must be an elderly couple, lonely and alone, therefore welcoming these little homeless souls that haven’t waited to be invited. I imagine them as a couple, never having had children, or perhaps their grown children have moved far away. They are a complete pair, reliant on and wanting only each other. Not friendly but not impolite, they merely keep to themselves though choose not to barre their doors nor turn away those that are hungry or cold, or alone. And they ask for nothing in return, maybe their company should they choose to share it.

Never having seen these two veterans of life outdoors, I find myself conjuring up faces and names and personalities. These two living, breathing figments take up a conversation in my mind after I have said my farewell and reluctantly walked away from their home. I wonder how they would compare to other time-tested couples, if I ever had the chance to meet them.

In my mind she has round, rosy cheeks and blue-grey eyes, her hair is wispy and unruly where in her youth it was thick and glossy, untameable in its mass, she kept it pinned back in a simple but elegant bun. The years have seen it thin and loose its rich colour, so she keeps it shorter, just brushing the nape of her neck, tucked neatly behind her ears. A fringe that she trims herself when it tickles her eyelids. She’s all soft and cushiness, like your favourite, old sofa, few hard edges though it sags a bit in the middle. She’s soft-spoken, quiet even as she’s learned to limit her words uttered, preferring to hum a sweet tune as she sweeps through their little home. She talks to her cats though, about nothing too serious or heavy, I doubt they’d tolerate that, just those thoughts that flutter through her mind and she thinks they’d appreciate, perhaps understand, perhaps not.

‘There’ll be a storm this afternoon, my dears. I can smell it on the wind.’ She says while tapping her nose. ‘Pop your head out of the window and tell me you can’t feel it coming.’ This ginger kitty only gazes up in her general direction for a moment, and then goes back to his umpteenth deep clean, in no hurry to do her bidding. ‘Go tell your mates to make their way back inside now. No one will want to get caught in this storm.’ She warns. ‘Look at those dark clouds brewing.’

This most senior resident Ginger rolls over onto his back, and mid-lick glances up and out of the nearby window, a deep stretch before he moseys over, spring leaps, and lands gracefully on the windowsill. He closes his orange-yellow tiger eyes, tilts his head back slightly, and inhales deeply while the warm rays make his sunset-gold fur shine. ‘Told you so.’ She winks, but he’s already landed on that patch of hard-packed earth outside, slinking his way to the gate, under and away.

‘You warn them about the storm coming?’ a deep, gruff voice floats to her in the kitchen. He has this slightly annoying way of letting his words precede him. Announce his imminent arrival. His way of introducing his soon-to-be physical presence to those who are occupying that space. She’s never known him to enter a room without first speaking, from wherever he is, to whomever may be there, to her, to a cat, to the flies on the walls or the spirits that dwell there. Good thing her hearing is still as sharp as a whistle, or she’d receive only the latter part of his speech as he tends to start talking well before he arrives at his destination. He likes the way his deep, timbered, vocalised words march up loudly in front of him. A slight man, his voice has a booming quality that belies his physical stature, and of which he is unashamedly proud. The comedy is not lost on him either, like a shadow blown up to ridiculous proportions, huge and intimidating only to shrink quickly to mock you and your imagination. He would use this technique often at work, stomping, voice booming down the hallways and then a little man pops his head around the door frame, and you find yourself confused, cheated or relieved. An impish grin and his warm brown eyes making you smile and relax, and then boom, boom, boom vocal vibrations and you jump to attention again.

His cats have remained largely unimpressed. For though loud when he chooses to speak, they know the gentleness of this man.

‘I did.’ She answers simply.

Their conversations are intentional and concise. Wasting no words nor the energy that must be dispensed with to select, and then to share them. Succinctly and more often non-verbally, they both learnt long ago that few people bother with active listening, unable or unwilling to fully focus on what others are saying, and most won’t bother to record or remember your words anyway.

Short and sweet. And simple. For these two souls know each other deeply. They use their bodies, their gestures to convey messages and meaning. Taking note of and reading hunched backs, heads bent over, palms propping up chins, folded arms or legs, eyes rolling, pursed lips, flaring nostrils, toothy grins, eyelids squeezed shut, and furrowed brows. Read each other like picture books, colourful, detailed drawings, no words necessary.

‘Soups on at 5. Draw the chairs up to the window won’t you’, she asks unnecessarily.

Soft scraping that jars at her nerves, replaced quickly by the calm that she knows will flow through her as they sit side by side, sipping warm, hearty soup from their bowls, excitedly awaiting the chilly, misty breezes that will be coming in through windows that have been thrown open. Shutters firmly locked in place that will rattle gently in protest, as they sit with eager eyes locked firmly onto a point in the distance up above houses, and trees, to those darkening clouds.

Sipping soup and silently counting between the flashes, rapid calculation of distance, waiting, anticipating those invisible rumbles and flashes. They’ll feel their fingertips starting to prickle with nervous anticipation, the heat transferred from their bowls soothing the softly pulsating itching, mimicked in the ever-increasing tempo of their heartbeats.

Silent counts…and…a massive CRACK of lightning. They can almost feel their hair rising to meet the static in the air. Negative ions are rapidly clustering and darting around the charged atmosphere seeking to maintain a balance while surging back to earth. Excitement and awe pulsate through the expectant bodies witnessing mother nature unleashing her wrath on the earth.

Entranced and intrigued as young ones, their childlike visions of a maternal Goddess looking down upon her world and wanting to wash away the grime and dirt, is an image that has stayed with them throughout their lives, and if they are honest, they have often secretly wished that many of the foul and dirty parts of the world be washed away. They sit self-righteous but respectful, excited and slightly terrified, thinking that today, this storm, will be the one to sweep them away. And they accept Her right to do so.

One Mississippi…

Two Mississippi..

Three Mississippi..

Four Mississippi..

Five Mississippi…

CRAAAAACK!! A blitzkrieg of light, a resounding echo.

Only 1 mile away.

The winds pick up, and eyes are shut mid-sip, gulp, swallow, and tilt their heads back, nostrils flaring, deeply inhaling those earth-bound ions which flood their lungs and ripple chain-reactions deep within their tissues, they swear they feel their genetic chains vibrating.  

And so focused they are in physically feeling the moment, so grounded in their bodies, that their heart-minds can hitch a ride on the winds of memory, thoughts reeling back to other simpler days, of children climbing trees, boughs swaying and straining against whipping winds. Like a bird caught on a wire while he was preening, must hold tight and keep his balance or let go and be swept aloft by those gusts and glide on the airwaves. Little fingers tightly grip branches, and body weight is thrown forward to counter the winds strong push back. A perfected balancing act, instinctively adjusting to the direction and strength of the gale that is gusting. Mother is hanging out of the kitchen window yelling warnings that are carried up and away, unheard, unnoticed as all attention is focused on riding this wind, on semi-surfing this storm, on daring to be blown like a paper kite that’s been lost to a hand.

How far could they be carried away? How high could they fly? The wind blocks out all, rushes past ears and deafens. Eyes pinched shut as cold, heaven-sent drops slap and sting and spatter young faces. Skin shivers with goose flesh. Hands grip tightly as pins prick fingertips, and chilled needles shallow stab. And young hearts are soaring. Wild imaginations are rampaging. While old hands are clasped, fingers interlaced, connected. Aging bodies seated close together by the large, open window. Forever young minds full of memories and dreams, flights of fantasy.

One Missi….CRACK!!! Blinding flash, and heavenly swords clash. And they are in the belly of this beast of a storm. Young bodies are soaked, clothes stuck fast like wet, beaver skins. WOO-HOOS and YIHAAAAS fly out and away, fists pump the air while bodies and branches bash and collide. Squeaky, screeches as woody arms rub-bump against each other.

Wide smiles, and deep wrinkle lines, hands squeeze, and they are here, and they are back there. Fully present in both moments in an endless time. For always and forever in these same spaces, in these ever-present moments. Within the Everness. In this storm, and every other storm that has raged, and they have raged with, and lived through. Rumbles feel like they are coming from the deep, under-earth caverns and caves in the dark places below us. Grumbling thunders vibrate up massively staunch tree trunks, wide of berth, ageless and forever aging.  

I see them young, and I see them older.

I see what changes, and what will forever remain unchanged.