Haibun

Haibun no. 1

Someone once told me that walking is just interrupted falling. I’ve spent weeks thinking about that lately, and this weekend, I decided to find a way to fall uninterrupted. After months of coercing, I finally convinced my dad to go kayaking with me. Walking, or interrupted falling, connects you to the ground, to the world beneath your feet. But putting yourself at the mercy of and in the midst of water, draws you deeper to the core of life. Water is the cornerstone of all life on this world, so what better way to enjoy some uninterrupted falling than in the everflowing Shenandoah River.

My dad and I picked up the kayaks from our friends and headed East out of Harrisonburg on an unusually warm November morning. I spent the time of unnatural movement in the big metal box listening to waves in the air. They took the form of Christmas tunes. It was a joyous drive; I followed the sight of green and blue boats sticking out of my dad’s truck bed.

Heading way down east,

An unusual event –

Warm November skies

We arrived at the riverbed with our boats after dropping a car on the other end. We would be falling uninterrupted for seven miles. The sign said it would take 3-5 hours, but we thought it might be a shorter ride since the river was high from the past two days of heavy rain. We walked our boats into the river, and gracefully schlepped ourselves into the boats, only one out of our four feet plunging to the icy river.

As we pushed off, I thought about the extent it took for us to get there. It feels like it should be so easy to boat on a river. Turns out you have to plan and drive and walk and have some way to get yourself back to the start with your boats. I was glad to have my detail oriented father with me.

As we pushed off, I melted into the rush of the river. I was here. Uninterrupted falling. The river moved fast, and we fell along with it. The vast power of the water around me took my breath away. Upon going through the first rapid, a great wave tumbled into my lap, leaving my bright green leggings soaked through to my legs. At that moment I knew I had made the correct choice about how to spend my Saturday off work.

After the first rapid we came to a stretch of calm river. To our left, we saw a great log where five or six turtles lay sunbathing. As we floated past, one by one they slipped into the water, disturbed by our meer presence in their humanless world. I felt the uncomfort of intruding on a private, serene moment.

Turtles dive under.

Nature will always go on –

You are here to watch

But are we humans not also nature? Do we not also fall uninterrupted in time and space? Even so, I always feel that my place is to watch. I pick out woodpeckers in the trees, and drifting logs before we come upon our second rapid. This time it’s dad’s turn to lead. We hear the rush of water from far out, around the riverbend. We expect a difficult rapid. When our sight catches up with the sound, we find that the large sound was only caused by a collection of branches and trees lodged in the middle of the river. I thought this illustrated an interesting metaphor. How often do I expect something huge and frightening just out of sight around the bend of the river of life? And how often does it turn out to be less frightening than I thought?

I cannot see past

the bend of raging river –

Intriguing chaos

I heard some rustling in the bushes as we passed through the last rapid. Looking to the bank, I saw a few deer snap their heads to attention. I’ve always loved the way a deer freezes. It’s a beautiful moment of suspension in time and space, where we can lock eyes with the universe. The squirrels nearby rustled through the leaves, frantically looking for the best place to hide their nut for the impending winter months. We floated slowly by, falling ever so slightly, and yet, uninterrupted.

Eyes like darts caught still.

Where is the best place to hide

For the winter near?

Upon seeing a bridge, we thought our time of uninterrupted falling had come to an end, as a bridge was where we dropped our car to begin with. We discussed the river trip, and how it was much shorter than we had thought. Again, we attributed this to the high water level. We agreed we were glad we didn’t decide to do the shorter trip, as it probably wouldn’t have even been worth the haul out to the river. However, as we got closer to the bridge, we realized this was not our bridge. We had assumed too quickly that we were at the end! It was maybe only another hundred yards before our actual bridge came into sight, and our falling came to an end. Usually both my dad and I are very attentive to our surroundings, so it was odd that both of us were convinced by this fake bridge. An interesting end to our endeavor of uninterrupted falling.

Haibun no. 2

It’s the third day in a row I’ve been on the clock before the sunrise. I’ve got one more tomorrow. It’s Sunday morning and the whole world is asleep. I’m wondering, just like I do every week at this time, “Why did I sign myself up for this?” Whatever. I just drink another cup of coffee and long for a Wednesday. Maybe I’ll spend some more time researching kayaks and backwoods camping. Anything to believe, just for a moment, that I am anywhere but here. You know, Leah, you had the option to not overcommit yourself, and yet, just like always, when the time came, you got scared of being alone with yourself, and signed up for something else. You have to learn how to deal with the consequences without dragging everyone around you into it.

The world is asleep,

And me and my coffee are

Anywhere but here.

A client finally rumbles around and asks to go on a walk. I am excited to do anything, but also resent doing anything. It’s a toxic balance, but once I’m out the door, I have nothing but love for what I do. I decide to walk with him to a hill nearby, one of my favorites. He says he’s been there before. We go anyway. While we walk, I listen to his stories. His history. His passion and resentment. He’s been wronged many times, and is learning to heal. He is so real, yet so removed from this place.

Even though we are walking together through my world, he’s not allowed to exist. As soon as I leave this place, he must be gone too. Such is the nature of social work. I live two separate lives, and neither one exists to the other. Or else they do, and it’s shrouded in a cloud of mysterious wonder. As I walk with him, my mind spins along with the dust I kick up, as I remember the outrageous questions people ask. The assumptions people have. And I feel like if they just had a chance to take a walk with him, they would realize how wrong they really are. I feel split into two people. I can’t defend myself, because my own self doesn’t exist. I feel small and broken at this moment. Small and broken. Split into two halves, neither one making a whole. I can’t change his situation. And I can’t help others to understand it either. Too much dwells over me. And then I arrive to class on Monday morning and no one knows that I’ve put in a thirty hour work week over the weekend and… How have my thoughts ended up here? Class is a world away. Right now I’m walking with a client at work, and I must find a way to keep myself here.

I am empty and

You are nothing. Only when

Night falls am I dust

But if I can somehow ground myself here, with the morning sun beating on my back, the mountains standing guard, and the smile of he-who-doesn’t-exist, and if I can somehow keep the steady, crunchy rhythm of my footsteps in the fall, maybe my half can learn to be content.

I ground myself here –

Half-hearted conversation

And the morning sun

~~~

Haibun no. 3

It was that time of year. The time of year when I lock myself in the President’s Room on the third floor of the library and don’t emerge until there is a fourteen or fifteen page document to show for it. I trudged through the bitter cold, with only my eyes exposed to the world, scarf wrapped tightly around my neck, hat pulled over my ears. I like the way these masks keep me warm. I hope the trend continues into our yearly winter wardrobe.

Exposed to the wind

The bitter cold brings me to

Wrap my scarf tighter

I pull open the door that says “enter here”, and make my way to the up-direction staircase. How many times have I walked these halls? How many times have I climbed these stairs, passed the place my grandfather fell and died? I glance at the oddly coloured carpet square and remember that weird afternoon as I make the climb once again. At least he died surrounded by books. He would have laughed his full bellied laugh if we told him that. I finish the climb, always backwards in time, coming face to face with my grandfather at the top of the stairs. Could we have convinced him to use the elevator that day?

Ghostly stale air is

The same as that April day –

Staircase time capsule

I make my way past the psychology books. There’s that one always told myself I’d make time to read before I graduated. Alas, it’s too late. I wonder why I spent all of my time in the catacombs rather than up here. It’s a nice place. I walk through the door to the President’s Room, and am greeted by eight half smiling old white men. Man, I can’t wait until Susan’s picture is up there with them. I breathe the nostalgic air, climb out of my sleeping bag of an outer layer, and settle in for the long haul.

Surrounded by books

I lose myself in writing.

How much time has passed?

I come to and look at the clock. Two and a half hours have passed and I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere. I get out of my seat and decide to take some laps. I get a drink, use the restroom, and start meandering. There are the rest of the psychology books I never read, the biblical interpretations I never explored, the history of entire regions of the world I never devoured. Is it better to know general ideas about every section of the library, or to be an expert of one particular section? Ask me where the Worcester Fragments are located or where the

commentaries on American composers are or where the score to Pierrot Lunaire is, and I could lead you precisely there. But I could not even tell you the sections I am walking past right now. My one ten hour day spent here per semester does not quite cut it. I need another four years of college to get to know this floor.

The window at the end of the walkway is starting to show the wintry sun. Lehman looks odd from this perspective. I’m not used to looking at campus through this angle. I think I like it. It’s different. A squirrel frantically buries a nut in the ground before being chased up a tree by a friend. I love the squirrels around Lehman. I consider them my friends, and on many late nights in that building, they were my coworkers. Over the past four years I’ve watched a recessive trait of short tail hair make its way through the population. At first there was just one, and then it

disappeared for a while. But then, all of a sudden, the population boomed. One squirrel had long hair, one medium length, and then the next two you saw looked like giant rats running around with their peach fuzz tail growth! It was a fun tangential college experience. Now, watching them run through the lawn, I wonder who will continue to watch them when I am gone. Who will appreciate their odd existence?

Searching for a nut,

As I continue to search

For greater meaning

I tear myself away from the window to continue my lap. I must get back to work eventually. As I walk, my mind wanders. I wonder if the reason I am having such a mental block is because this is the last time I get to do this. Once this project is complete, it essentially means college is done. Sure I have a few other small papers and reflections to complete, but this really is it. I’ve always been such a nostalgic, sentimental person, and I know that this is a huge door I am walking through that will shut behind me sooner than I’m ready for it. Where will I go to be

surrounded by books? It sure can’t be here if the library is still closed to the public next semester. Because I will be the public. Horrifying. Maybe I’ll find my way back here eventually and die surrounded by the books I love. It probably runs in the family. I settle back into my seat since I’ve already spent too much time pondering and pacing. I will get this done. Seven and a half more hours to go.