Rabbit Vision On Skis

Last night I wore a bow-tie and two-piece suit to a dinner theater at my son's high school. Just before dessert was served, I spoke to an elderly woman I barely know, a sweet little German lady I'd not seen in years. Her response to my tie? "You look like you've -- what's the word? -- you look like you've arrived."

Now that's funny. It's amazing the illusion one can create with a mere strip of cloth. I am so far from having arrived I might as well turn around.

***

To get to our house––at least the most direct route––one must travel across a small bridge. As we returned home from a wonderful evening of song and dance and fine food last night, we turned onto our country road and approached the bridge. There, on the far side of the bridge in the deep shadow of night, was the forest's living shadow –– an enormous black bear –– waiting to cross. The giant bear (it was the largest black I've seen), turned heel but then stopped. For a second I thought he might challenge my car. At last, with a quick spin the bear jogged down the road in front of us and plodded into a reedy marsh. I felt bad for interrupting his travels, perhaps even causing him to get his feet wet.

A few days earlier, in a rare moment in these parts, while driving my son to school, my son and I saw a rabbit leap out of the woods, halting itself in the oncoming lane. I slammed on my brakes and came to a stop. The rabbit, a mix of white and brown (changing from its winter to summer coat), turned back, leapt once onto the embankment and then, in one single bound, sailed over a stone wall. And as it sailed (I mean, the thing was flying), the rabbit turned its head and looked over its left shoulder at us, checking, no doubt, to see if we were pursuing. But the coolest thing was this: to notice that the rabbit (rabbits' eyes are located on the sides of their skull) was looking with one eye––its right one––at where it was going, while with the other it was looking at where it had been. Simultaneously its brain could process the future that was approaching rapidly, and the past that was receding just as quickly. In both directions the rabbit could make decisions: its backward glance would determine its next future leap, and so too would its forward focus.

It's pretty cool.

***

Yesterday was the last day for skiing at my home mountain. I took seven runs down Pluto's Plunge in the sixty degree sunlight (there was a cool wind), enjoying the easy arc of ski in the soft and slushy snow. There were moments that the conditions felt a bit sluggish beneath my usually slick skis, making it a bit difficult to roll from edge to edge. But when I found my groove during runs six and seven, it was pure joy. And yet ...

And yet there was sorrow. At the end of each run I would look up the bright, shimmering slope, studying my tracks, deep grooves wending from short to medium to short radii in skidless arcs. How many more times will I be able to do this? I wondered. Is this the last time I will leave tracks here?

Each day I ski, each run I take, I try to leave perfect marks on the hillside. And yet the snow melts before me, washing my past away even before I reach my future: before and aft the snow disappears, leaving no evidence of me at all. I try to leave a mark, a good one, and yet I turn to look and my mark is gone.

Yesterday as I walked slowly towards my car––Atomic skis in my hand, Salomon boots still buckled tight to my feet––I looked at all the marks I've ever made pooling beneath me in the shimmering mud. It seems I've arrived indeed.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.