Silent Healing

  A huge, gray cloud hangs low as I drive toward downtown Denver in the 5:30 cold morning darkness to meet Arnie for our silent walk.  The cloud is quite heavy.  And loquacious. It is full of its ideas:  I could be home writing; I am behind on some jobs, and I don't have time to create something by tomorrow; No time to even think about my book; Oncologist appointment will take up the afternoon; And be a waste of time. No time.  No time.  No time.

  At still-dark-o'clock, I park on the street, walk down an alley, and find Arnie.  We decide to head south, on the east side of the river - the side that passes a sleeping amusement park.  To do that we first walk the bridge across the river.  Water freefalls and tumbles over rocks below us. 

  I step off the bridge onto the sidewalk, notice a little cottontail come toward me then hop away, and five steps later, I become aware of the sidewalk under my feet.  Instantly, my mind travels to the men who created it.  They may have wished that they could have been home with their babies or their wives, writing their manuscript, creating something from inside of them, instead of creating something decreed by others.  But build it, they did.  Most likely in order to earn money to feed themselves, their children, their wives, maybe their mothers.

  My heart is touched.  Tears mimic the river, tumbling over my cheeks, freefalling off my chin. 

  Ducks fly beside us, gossiping loudly as they pass.  Then up ahead, splash!, feathers meet water.  I feel that I am walking on holy ground. 

  Did those sidewalk creators know that while they were working for money, possibly putting aside what they thought they really wanted to do, they were building a path of bliss on which unknown numbers of people would walk, some realizing the holiness like I finally did today?

  Oh, the high rises.  Those, too.  Humans creating homes for others.  And the amusement park beside us, quiet now, with floodlights casting ghostly shadows on the roller coaster.  Man, I loved the roller coaster when I was thirteen.  Riding it over and over, stoking my love of altered states.  People built this place where eight year olds go wild with excitement, young teens find freedom from parents, and teenagers work their first jobs.  All holy, holy. 

  Halfway through our hour of silent walking, Arnie and I turn back.  Though it's not even March yet, songbirds sing the sun up over the skyline. 

  As we near our meeting place where we end our walk with a cup of tea (well, Arnie will have coffee), a muskrat swims toward us, her tail barely under the water swishing back and forth, propelling her forward until she dives down, not to be seen by us again this day.

  After hot tea and coffee, and conversation about Hafiz and cancer, I drive home in the car that many people spent their days creating.  Gas from deep within the holy, holy earth propels me forward.  And I notice that I need my sunglasses.  The gray cloud is gone.