“Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is serious.” Brendan Gill
To be foolish…
we throw our shackles of perceived security off.
We follow the singing of a brook or don masks under oaks in their spring foliage.
We may even chase a butterfly over the precipice.
Life is a grand adventure. Yet many try to shrink it to fit a narrow view.
Holding on, we anchor ourselves to false certainty: the true love, the children, the home, the job, possessions that we pile and monitor with the eye of a dragon.
But the uncertainties, those goblins, have a way of ruining everything.
Try the same thing again.
This time it will work.
They whisper to us through fear and doubt.
My goblins of uncertainty are habitual responses to loss – or, not letting go of loss. Hanging on by its dead roots, I have stayed near the ground. Not moving, not growing, and certainly not chasing the tempting butterfly that might lead elsewhere.
Where? the goblins demand.
What will it be?
And what if there is pain?
I awake again to a midnight moon – a fool’s half-moon – in Pivot Rock Canyon.
There is perhaps nothing more apropos of the Fool’s wanton adventure than being outdoors – particularly alone, and definitely in a deep woods (the wilder the better).
To expect the unexpected is an unspoken mantra. Whether sleet, hail, or lightning strike or the myriad animal attacks a wanderer is warned of, the journey must always entail a bit of tangled vine and claw-print.
Traces of a late night visit leave imprints of Ursus americanus in my dreams and in the soft earth near the creek.
Instead of Bear, I am startled awake again by the clumsy arrival of revelers – unprepared families arriving late, to camp at 7000 ft, t-shirt and shorts, no idea where they are.
It’s 30 degrees here. Spring comes late to the Mogollon Rim.
The smoke from their fire and the shouts between camps sites keep me awake, wishing it had been Bear instead of Bipeds.
Most early spring nights as these, the woods are empty of other people.
Time to laugh it off, despite my annoyance. Time to wander away from the road. Next time, I will pack in to where no others like to go.
At least, no human others.
Between the cracks of ember and beer cans, I remember the mating call of a mountain lion that echoed down from aptly named Wild Cat Spring, just below a still bustling highway at dusk.
But now it is only the campfire that hisses.
Be prepared for anything, the Fool laughs. Rather, be unprepared. Be surprised.
The Fool is also the joker who reminds us that anything can happen. The joker’s wild! Remain accustomed to glorious catastrophe. Follow the stars, unshaken by the precipice below our feet.
The thing is, the view from home is fixed, the known road is comforting.
But the elsewhere. Elsewhere is a game of chance, and with any game there is a loser – a jester sitting in a pig sty, hat askew, wondering how the hell he got there.
Nonetheless, he dusts himself off and back to the journey he goes.
To the wanderer, home can be hell, and nothing more painful than stasis.
Out there are stories.
Stories that make the storms circle and the birds squawk.
Stories for nights in canyons without sleep.
It is time to pick up the bindle and head off for the tantalizing depths of another adventure.