Sassafras

I was outside, a little while earlier, whizzing. There was a small space of clearing over and down in the southeast sky, and I found myself – standing out there in the pre-dawn dark – praying for more time, time in which to act with greater enthusiasm and all the devotion I can muster on any day I’m given for the purpose of sharing good, and hope, through my mediums of creativity. Especially hope.

We got told, back when, not to pray for specific things, that wasn’t the right way to do it, during the praying thing, or if we felt we must, then to always add, “If it is _______ (fill in the blank) some God’s will. Personally, I do not hanker to follow that particular suggestion anymore, the one of don’t go praying for specific things (often tagged-teamed with “Be careful what you ask for”), because for me it’s too long, I’m thinking, way too long into my life. To (here’s the R-rated version) further fuck around.

And time flies. It’s always flying by. And if you don’t believe that commit to watch an unobstructed Florida sunrise from the very first teensy hint of light off the distant horizon to the sun making its circular appearance and, wow, wham bam thank you Lord Dedith, the entire big ball of fire is already up and at ’em. Hurrying up into the sky. Never mind I’ve barely finished my coffee or run to these pages in another day’s attempt to translate inspiration. What does my wife say? – it spins like 23,000 miles per hour, our earth, which is PDQ – think about it – and if only airplanes were able to fly that fast I’d be able to visit my son Cameron, daughter-in-law Alison, and the four grandkids all the time, every two or three weeks, you know, of course, needing to secure necessary funding.

Anyway, calling all mathematicians and fellow egg-heads out there, if it is 3,000 miles between my wife and I, and the east coast of Florida and the other family, and if the plane is traveling at 23,000 miles per hour, doesn’t that make it like seven and a half minutes flying time? Something like that? It would take longer to taxi at each end.

All of which relates to taking a pre-dawn leak out in the pre-dawn back yard under the pre-dawn Douglas firs, and praying – not quite begging but tilting that way – for more time. Because I am on a mission. I’d like to think I could/can look back through all these 72-plus years and find other times and seasons when my emotional and spiritual investment of time and energy and whatever it is that makes up my soul, when all of it would fit the definition of living and being “On a mission”. For something good. And I am sure there are those times. As I am sure there have been more, likely way more, months and years when coasting was easier than diving all the way in. Yeah.

They say we will not regret the past, which I mostly think is bullshit, but even if I have a hint that time is in fact not straight-line horizontal but layered and folds over on itself (which may explain my 15 year-old take on life moment-to-moment), my birth certificate – oh cold-hearted paper – is very clear that the time is now to (here’s the PG-13 rated version) get my ass in gear. And going forward every moment I’m alive – every single day I am blessed with just waking up – do all the wicked important stuff I can to save the planet.

Whiz on, oh brave heart.