On Limping Ducks and Newness

I perched myself on a large rock near the lake. At first, I put my feet on the rock, so I could rest my elbows on my knees. But my feet kept slipping down - either the rock was slippery or my relatively new sneakers had lost their traction. I tried to keep my feet on the rock a few times, but gravity was persistent. I straightened my legs and crossed them. I stopped fighting the downward force and relented. In quitting and giving up, I found peace.

* * *
I saw a brown duck limping after a colorful one. I didn't understand what I saw. Why didn't the bird just fly? It had obviously hurt its leg, so why didn't it just soar into the air and escape from the pain of each step? Was it because of the boy duck? Stupid bird, if that was so. That peacock wasn't even looking at you, birdbrain. I cocked my head and looked at the duck. Hey bird, I said, if I chopped off your head and legs, you'd be a football, and I'll throw you real high, anywhere you want to go, you just name it. But I can't do that, I said. I am not a murderer, and I think you want to live.

* * *
I was talking to a high school friend while perched on that rock. Back in the days, she was my telephone and letter buddy. We'd spend more than five hours talking to each other on the phone and then we'd pass each other letters when we'd see each other in school. But then she left and moved here, and the e-mails were infrequent and far in-between. Now that I am here, she is just a call away again, just like the old days. But in some ways, it is not just like the old days. We're older now, more responsible, and we don't have the luxury of talking on the phone for hours at end. And even if we did, we'd have better things to do with our time. That world-rocking project needs to be turned in, and the clock that is life is ticking away - year after year after year.

* * *
A few months ago, I wanted a guitar. I have a really good guitar back home, but I don't have one here. But that desire passed away, and I never got one. I'm glad. Where will I find the time to strum and pluck those six strings when I can't even attend to my own headful of hair? But I wish the chapel here had a guitar, with nylon strings instead of steel ones, because the steel ones hurt more. That would make me happy, I think. Crap, I think I want a guitar again.

* * *
My friend told me that when you cut your hair, you cut away the bad luck from your life and invite the good luck in. Two Fridays ago, I had more than six inches cut from my hair. I thought I was being symbolic. New phase, new season, new hair, new life. The stage was set for the newness of everything.

But I find now that things are not new. Objectively, they are, but relatively and really, they aren't. I find that newness is a pretense, a promising concept that is entirely absent from reality. How can a day be brand new? Does sleep make a day brand new? So how about those who don't sleep? Or how about those who nap?

Days are not brand new. They carry over from the days passed. When the sun rises, you don't start from scratch. You write on and continue. That's all that you can do, and that's all there is. Newness is imaginary. It's like a fairy tale - you can believe in it and hope, but you can't make it come true.