Sweet By and By

 

June 27, 2022

 Greetings from before long,

 We become accustomed to the whirl of the world around us, adapting to the minor changes that ordinarily occur until we can almost navigate without thinking about it.  There is no sin in this, no slight against the gift, it is simply how life unfolds sometimes.  Thankfully, creation will sometimes nudge us gently to say ‘Now, pay attention’.

 I followed a rugged path through the woods, intent on how long I would hike, aware of the pack on my back, gauging and thinking, focused more on this as a training exercise than what it was.  Which was something else.

 People passed me, some on bikes, some on foot, some would say “Happy Father’s Day” and then left me to wonder what the correct response is.  “You too?”  Then overthought that for a while.

I would be in the woods for six hours or so, plenty of time to overthink all manner of things.  Like whether my shoelaces were too heavy, or if that was stone in my shoe or a heel spur.  Or if I say ‘thank you’ enough.  I wince when I remember when I forget to say that, like weeks too late.

 I came up behind an older couple on the path, and we exchanged remarks about the beautiful day.  The man said they had hiked ahead of their friends, who I had heard behind me talking loudly about insurance or other insults to humanity.  He said they were happy “…to be away from the din.”  And just for using the word ‘din’ he became my friend.  I told them a story as my gratitude for the exchange, and then hiked on alone.

 I could feel the fatigue in my legs, a good ache, the sensation I had been training for, knowing I was building strength for something.  The day warmed, my shirt clung to me, gnats and mosquitoes hovered, delighted my smorgasbord.

Step, pole, step, pole.  I found a rhythm, up and down the steep twists and turns, winding through pines and oaks, the canopy above me nearly hiding the deep blue arcing above all of us.   I leaned into the rhythm, the breathing and heartbeat making a counterpoint.  Miles slipped by and I lost track of where I was, focused on climbing a mountain that was weeks away.

 I have found this groove when I run, or on a long bike ride.  I lose track of what the body is doing, unfocused on my surroundings, go to other places.  Step, pole, step, pole.  Breathe, pulse, step, breathe, pole, pulse, step, pole, breathe.

Eleven miles clicked by, and I knew I should eat, and as soon as I knew it, I was ravenous.  I followed the path into a wide space, the edge of an empty campground and found a picnic table, heaved my back onto the stained boards.

 I stood in the soft light of the woods, felt the sweat running down my skin, felt the thud in my chest slow just slightly, and looked around me.  I could hear music, but it was so unexpected I didn’t trust what I was hearing.   Not just music, even more unbelievable, banjo music.

 Down the hill below me was a small lake, I could make out its color between the leaves.  Drifting into view behind the curtain of green, a small boat.  At first, I thought the music was recorded, then I heard the man stop, tune the strings, and begin singing as he played. 

 There was a woman with him on the boat, and a dog.  They couldn’t know I was there, I was too far up into the trees, but I was close enough to hear them move around the boat, to catch glimpses of them there in the sun.  He sang, plinked at the banjo, someone who had played a good deal, and I couldn’t tell you the songs, only that they were a beautiful gift.

I sat at the picnic table and unwrapped my smushed peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sipped the warm water from my bottle, a gourmet meal, and now with live music to accompany the repast.  There was something pure and lovely about the sound across the water.  I didn’t want the man to stop playing.  I realized this when he stopped playing.

 I heard him slip into the lake and call out to his dog to come in the water, and banter with the woman, who would not get wet.  I heard him climb back on the boat, and without enough time to even dry his hands, began playing again.

‘In the sweet by and by

We shall meet on that beautiful shore

In the sweet by and by

We shall meet on that beautiful, beautiful shore’

 He wandered off on the strings, little riffs that I could tell were just for fun, and then back to the hymn, the strings clanging and his voice wound into their sounds, all lifting up into the trees to settle in the only place they would be heard.  If a banjo is played in the forest…

 I sat and savored my meal and the music and the gentle air, and I felt the untwisting, felt the knot of intention and plans and training siphon off.  Felt creation nudge me.  ‘Now, pay attention.’

  

Hope this finds you by and by,

 

David

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2022  David Smith