The
Leonid meteor shower is due tonight, just in time to rescue me from
the Small Picture.
The Small
Picture is easy to focus on when you're me. Domestic details,
guilt over chores undone, interruption by cat, the state of the yard,
the state of the union, checking CNN to see if the Big One has gone off
yet, all these minor lumps adhere to one another to form a ball in my
gut that sits there and simmers, brews and spews acid and angst, and
serves to distract me from the enormous, corrosive, overriding fact that
my daughter's future is a giant question mark. The gut ball got
bigger this past Saturday when Amy had another seizure, a very strong
one, the first since the introduction of a new seizure med, and I think
we've all had really quite enough now, thanks. So when pieces of
comet come hurtling toward my planet at 140,000 miles per hour and burn
up seemingly right over my tiny little head, it helps in shifting my
view from Small Picture to Big Picture. It's that whole life cycle
thing, that birth, death, cue the hyenas,
what's-it-gonna-matter-in-a-thousand-years kinda thing.
Of course,
every kid is a question mark to some extent. Our extent here is
just a smidge more lengthy at the moment, lengthy like tendrils, like
tentacles reaching out and tickling my own future, my own freedom to
pursue my work. Am I a bad man, a bad father because I sit here
and think about myself? Will my daughter be spending the rest of
my life in the next room? Will she ever drive? Have a
job? Marry? Right now I'll settle for a sentence
well-spoken.
When the
trouble overwhelms, and deficiencies are all you can think about,
judging distances and time becomes almost impossible. Perspective
changes, gets lost. What seems solid and forever can be gone in
one brilliant flash. There is no wrong star. The heavens
have no defect, and we are in them. To know that and yet be bound
to a calendar of slow undetectable rotation can grip a man's spirit so
tightly that he no longer remembers the feeling of a long deep breath.
_______________________