Outside The Box

“Man is the only animal that blushes, or needs to.” —Mark Twain

Did you ever find yourself on a familiar stretch of road repeating a conversation you had the last time you were there? That happens to Tracey and me frequently enough that if the subject of the revived conversation was unpleasant, we have a ritual of rolling down the window to let the bad air out. If the talk was happy, we laugh and drive on.

Whenever I hear the vintage Boston hit, “Foreplay/Long Time,” it takes me back to a stretch of desert highway between Pahrump, Nevada, and Tecopa, California. I’m driving triumphantly but cautiously back to my campsite outside Tecopa Hot Springs, carrying a replacement for the wye-junction block that had stranded me in a desolate and painfully beautiful stretch of desert for almost three weeks. I was cautious because the brakes only worked on the passenger side of the vehicle with the ruptured line crimped to stop fluid loss. The sun was sinking into the west, painting the panorama with color and shadow that changed by the minute. The beauty was breathtaking, and a long series of misfortunes was ending as hope grew with every mile. I left the desert with a beautiful memory and a collection of friends whom I would never have met had that brake line not ruptured.

On another stretch of road just north of Helen, Georgia, at a certain time of day when the angle of the sun is just right, the memory of a desperate ride to beat the clock dims the sunlight and drains all beauty. My mother lay dying as we folded space to be at her side when she crossed over. We didn’t make it in time. Roads, rivers—they all carry echoes of our passing, some we summon with a song or a joke, others that ambush us when we least expect it.

A joke remembered carries me back to a stretch of water just below the confluence of the Okmulgee and the Oconee rivers. The water is wide there and the current slow. On a hot day, paddling a canoe can be onerous. Can the sun get any hotter? How can a swarm of gnats find us this far from the shore?

The boys in our adjudicated youth program were not happy. Tempers had flared, and several miles of stagnant blackwater had been polluted with a crescendo of whining and complaining. At a lull in the performative outrage, I joined in, mirroring the trash talk: “These nasty metal boats be killin’ me, mang. I can’t feel my legs. When we goan eat? I ain’t paddling this boat no more!” My canoe partner, one of the kids who was beginning to “get it,” looked at me and said, “Then gitchass out and walk.” The laughter erased the tension like a cool breeze on a hot day.

The journey we take leaves a lasting impact which can inspire or haunt us for a lifetime. We also leave our mark on the world and those around us in our wake. In Proverbs, Solomon says, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit.” But it’s not just our words that matter—he also writes, “Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it spring the issues of life.” While memories may come uninvited, we can shape them through the words we speak and the thoughts we choose to dwell on.

I’m reflecting today on another recently completed journey around the sun. I don’t count birthdays, nor welcome the ancient dark ritual of circling a burning cake, a sacrificial fire, and chanting an incantation that binds you to time and death. That was meant to be humorous, but not everyone appreciates Diogenes of Sinope. His lantern in the daylight still mocks our illusions of control, much like the words we wield without considering their weight.

I’m not entirely comfortable with the adage, “Actions speak louder than words.” That may be true at times, but perhaps it’s only true because words are so cheap, likely for the same reason the dollar is cheap. There are so many, and they are sprayed about so carelessly, with little thought to their consequences. Words follow thoughts, and actions follow both, and there is widespread delusion that there is no consequence or accountability for the careless use of all three.

And yet, in the stillness after the spray settles, there’s room to choose differently—to let the good air in. We leave you today grateful for another year and for your kind consideration. We may not always be wise, clever, or right, and our attempts at humor may fall short of the mark, but we will always take care in choosing the words we share with you. See you next time. Not if you see us first.