Friends Old, New, and Soon to Be,
We humans are beautifully impermanent. Of course, all life is, but we are the only species both gifted and cursed with that knowledge, a reality that leaves me pensive or grateful, depending on the moment. It’s the kind of thought that comes when I look at my dogs, knowing something they don’t, that there will be a day when I am forced to say goodbye to them. It’s a crushing realization every time, but one that also makes me resolve to love them enough to deserve them. I was reminded of that beautiful impermanence more gently this morning as I slipped down to the tidal creek near my house, alone in the cold violet of dawn, mine the first footsteps to mar the night’s snow that shows up once a decade or so in the coastal South.
Snow in the South is an ephemeral thing, magnificent and all-consuming for those of us who rarely see it. Work stops. Traffic stops. Here at the coast, kids on makeshift sleds try to make mountains out of molehills, seeking any slide-worthy slope in our flat coastal plain for a ride. It’s how I found myself towing my daughter on a boogie board meant for nearby Atlantic surf, bent over and sprinting downhill in a pair of duck waders, trying to push her fast enough down a three percent grade to slingshot her through three inches of snow. We try to make the most of the snow in its most beautiful moments, knowing that soon it will be gone or converted to ice, a condition that dominates our lives the way snow does but offers only hardness and cold and danger, with little of the beauty.
I’ve been attending enough funerals lately to remind me of our beautiful impermanence, that our lives are just a snow day in the South, and that the ice must always come. We begin in wonder and excitement, everything full of potential, any ugliness hidden under a shimmering crystal blanket. If we are smart and fortunate enough to have the means and opportunity, we laugh as we carelessly careen downhill, spinning and sliding. We make snow angels, heedless of cold because we can always go home. We hope for more, and sometimes, we get it, or at least another day of canceled work and school. But eventually, the snow melts, leaving mud and torn grass behind, a condition we can choose to either mourn for the passing of the magic or cheer for the reminder of the coming of Spring. There will be ice with all its hidden dangers, and eventually, when we get back in our cars and head to work, we may find ourselves spinning our wheels or drifting off the road. It’s all part of a snow day in the South. It’s all part of life. And it’s beautiful for its impermanence.
That impermanence is why it’s so important to put everything aside when life’s glory presents itself, to put the out-of-office message on and get out in it. There won’t always be next year. There won’t always be another season. I reckon we’d do well to find a cardboard box and a three percent grade before the melt comes.
Yours,
Russell Worth Parker
Editor-in-Chief, Tom Beckbe Field Journal
