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| The Ghost of Tom Joad Knocking at the Door: Millard County, Utah, January 2024, Steve Brown |
Now. What an amazing time?--almost always. I am aware that there are people who have nows they desperately need to leave behind but can't seem to, victims of trauma, who have yesterdays that keep them from engaging in today. That's another book to be written by another person. Like everyone, I have had some trauma in my life. I am a child of divorce, as are many. I was bullied in high school, as are many. But looking back, I now realize, I never experienced trauma at a level that sitting in a moment fully and just experiencing that pain would not have been beneficial--a means to not only understand myself better but those who caused me harm, intentionally or unintentionally. Being present in those painful moments would have allowed me to break down the barriers that made me feel alone, isolated, and victimized. If I had understood the moments I was bullied well, I would have understood well also that the bullying had absolutely nothing to do with me other than that I was considered as an easy target.
Now. As an observer, what a great place to be. Engaged intentionally, allowing oneself to hover above, so to speak, and simultaneously film the movie--I think there is a place for that in life. A vital place. But outside of Buddhist monasteries, we are not taught to do it, and because of that, we are missing a lot of life. No, that's not it. We are pretty much missing all of life. Most just aren't aware of it. A life lived not simultaneously watched by the liver is mostly invisible to them. It is spent in their head, removed by the ego from reality. Or it passes by unconsciously to fade into an unmarked past. Or it is lived in daydreams of a better tomorrow. More likely, it is a combination of all three, which steals enormous amounts of now that cannot later be recovered.
But a life imbedded in the present stretches both ways--deep into the past, where moments can be savored like candy samples from jars on the glass shelf of the mind, the sampling still available far into the vast, unknown future. For to be grounded in now is to both know my past and be solid for the future. I think that's what Christ was saying when he told the adulterer to go and sin no more. Once solid in the now, she could absorb whatever painful consequences would surely follow from her previous bad choice, and she could also be rock-steady for whatever unsure future would develop as a natural consequence from that choice. The ability to be completely present prepares you for anything and everything. It is the ultimate surrender. I am here, now, whatever may come to pass.
All we have is now. When we use it well, everything else becomes unimportant. People do not commit adultery because they are living in the now. They commit adultery because they are either trying to escape some unpleasant past or escape some unpleasant present. They commit adultery because they are seeking escape from their situation instead of encountering reality on its own terms.
Sitting in the now places you in reality not outside it. It becomes something like this: my wife and I no longer communicate the way we used to. Everything seems to lead to a fight. How does that make her feel? How does that make me feel? Is there something I can do now to make this evening go differently than yesterday? That is now thinking. It's watching from above, in the moment, from all angles. It's seeing the gritty details and being open--letting in all of the light, and also letting in all of the darkness, unfiltered, in as objective as humanly possible, which of course, has its limits.
And it takes training. Our mind wants to be anywhere but in the current moment. But the more one enters each moment well, the more one sees how truly beautiful each moment is--even the cluttered, disorderly, uncontrollable ones. Lately, I've been practicing.
Now. I'm on my way home from work. It's a cold, gray day. There is a city of mouse droppings surrounding the plastic case of the live trap on the floor of my car by the passenger seat, and there are two mice in it. I know that not only from the mousy smell, but also because I checked when I got in. I hate mice in my car, but I know they are just doing their best to survive and reproduce, and my car happens to provide a grand shelter from the elements, so to intentionally kill them seems wrong. Only part of me hates them--the part of me that fears hantavirus. Fear makes me hate them. Otherwise, they are cute, and even if I thought they were ugly, I would still want them to go about their lives trying their best to survive.
I am scanning the road, looking for places to set the two critters free. Part of me wants to dump them anywhere. They have pooped all over the passenger seat and all over the center consul and in the drink holders. I had to put my lunch cooler in the backseat to avoid contamination. I placed my phone very carefully on a small turd-free part of the seat. I just want to get rid of them. But I can't. So, I'm looking off the side of the road for suitable terrain. It's winter. It's cold. I am looking for either lots of wild rye or soft dirt, or preferably both, for food and bedding for my little enemies. I do not want to release them to die. I don't mind if they die. Die, we must. All of us. From bristlecone pine to stink bug. I just don't want to cause my furry mouse-foes deaths unnecessarily.
Finally, I see a place. The old crumbling pioneer house that I love greatly. I know there's not much rye there. That's a minus. But I also know the earth is soft and powdery, easy to dig into. And there is still cheat grass and goat heads, probably still enough food and nesting material. And it is off the highway. I slow down, turn to the left on a gravel road, and pull in next to the adobe-walled remnants of a house that must be from the 1800s. I grab the trap and get out. A cold winter wind blasts me.
I fiddle with the trap. It stinks. I can't figure out if I pull or push the top even although I've done it before. It finally moves when I pull it towards me. I lower it to the ground and the two mice jump out and scurry away. The trap is full of droppings half imbedded in peanut butter and half dissolving in piss. I put the lid back on, place it back on the floor, grab a bottle of hand sanitizer, push the pump, and wash my hands, disgusted. Then I grab my camera.
While I'm here in this moment, I might as well get everything out of it. I aim the camera towards the wood and adobe ruins next to a solitary tree. I realize with all the dust and sand stirred up, the mountains have dissolved, and the place looks even more isolated than it really is, a dust-bowl-like image. It is profound in a spooky way. Especially the dark black dead tree that stubbornly bears witness to the fact that this once was a house with a yard, a family, chickens certainly, and cats, perhaps even a dog. Lives lived together tightly under great big skies. Lives huddled inside with wind and dust swirling outside, sneaking through the window seals, crawling through the cracks, mice gnawing their ways into the walls to sleep, eat, begat, scurry and thump around in reality. Mice running through dreams of that family that once was so present here but is no more.
To be here, now, is a profound honor. To be at a place I frequently pass by, never quite ignoring, but certainly not fully absorbing either. But I am here, now, and at this moment that is all that matters.
I wish my furry little foes, who have already vanished into their own world, well, get back in the car, and head off towards another place, another moment, feeling the ghost of Tom Joad knocking, warning us of nows past that may soon be here again if we don't deal with the realities of climate change.
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