Check Engine

The Check Engine light was flashing as I drove through the iced latte twists of our country road. An ache deep in my lungs was warning me that a persistent virus was looking for a toe hold in me. The car was sputtering on empty. And so was the bank account. I felt an urgency in my heart because the sun was so brilliant on the icy road. The day began so bright, delicious and crisp... and mixed. I felt the sun offering itself one more day before a cold would shake my body.

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Now... the car is in the shop. I write from the coffee shop on Esther Short Park in Vancouver. Beside me a disheveled young man fidgets. He skewers the the coffee sippers and the corporate schemers with his stare. Across the aisle is an older man, white hair, ancient white Mac laptop. He is lost in reverie, tapping a new tome into his memory bank. Occasionally he looks up, dreamily and serious. He peers into a library book with a broken spine. The sun spins it's web on all of us in here.

I sit with my sandwich clutched beside my leg, off the table. The young man stares at me. The old man stares into an interior landscape. I am strangely uncomfortable between the two strangers. One is of poverty. And one is of imagination. And here I am, teetering on the edge of both extremes. I feel an urgency here too. The Sun inspires words and a blank astonishment. A youthful wanderer and a cold shivering against the windows rattles me.

The weather is changing. The season seems to stir all of us with our fears and our fantasies. The sun... The sun... The sun. What beauty! Remember the sun! Collect all of it's promises and warm caresses blazing kisses upon your face. Feel the warmth while you can. Then remember it when your bones cold and old.

I say to myself... and perhaps to you... This is the day to be solid and free. This is a day to be right where I am, between the two poles... Stretched, but not snapped.

The tide of this familiar little shop moves in and out. The old man packs up his prized work and leaves. The young man stands, paces and then ambles out the other door. Here I am. The car is being repaired down the street. This new born cold is being soothed by a steaming joe. The spirit is free to move in and out through these windows so full of winter light. Inside there remains the urgency to breathe deep and notice all of this life.

Time is fleeting. There is this moment between past and future. For a moment I no longer clutch my sandwich. For a moment I am no longer afraid of what will come, or what will grow in my body. I will not limit what wants to move out into the clear blue dome of winter.

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