Plant an Idea: a Parable

Great ideas are like great seeds: tiny particles of promise; all potential, nothing "valuable" as of yet, but full of a strength and presence only the wise ones know. Those who understand the power of great ideas will not keep their share in a plastic bag on the shelf; nor will they labor endlessly to find the best pot, the best water, the best soil; they will choose any pot that will hold soil, fill it, and plant each seed with care, one by one. And, once all their seeds are nestled in the dirt, the planters go inside and--have lunch! After all, it doesn't take an above-average intelligence to grow a healthy plant. Add a little water, sun, and soil, and greatness simply becomes itself.

To a city-dweller, or to others equally unversed in the cultivation of such unassuming mysteries, a handful of the stuff might as well be a clutch of dust. But, in classic irony, as the ignorant discard what seeds of genius they possess (perhaps for bowls of soup, or worse, jobs), the seeds are not destroyed. On the contrary, they fall to the fertile soil of disuse, forgetting, and the vital depths of unconsciousness. Else, they catch a gust of wind and drift until they find a place to rest, take root, and grow. Then, even after being trampled by ten thousand bureaucratic boots, swept away by cataclysms of culture, and buried under the ponderous weight of institutions, the great idea rises silently from its humble ground in triumph--unembittered, rugged, raw, and true to its original, eternal grace.

So, do not boast and say, "I have a great idea." Rather, plant it in good sunlit soil, and remember to water it every day. For anyone who asks, say, "I am growing a great idea," but even then, do not boast until you can hold the ripened fruit of the tree in your hand, bite down, and taste its succulent flesh. Then, you may boast of your expert skill in tilting a watering can, and of your capable teeth.

A Bluesy Dead-Rabbit High

I am the man who stops and stares at roadkill. Not for any morbid thrill, or out of fascination with a body ripped apart by sudden, unexpected force, but for the succulent flavor of meditation that inevitably follows such a raw and brutal image. For lack of a better word, I call this mood a “bluesy dead-rabbit high.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if this feeling struck my readers as perverse, or at least queer. After all, I’ve only seen this feeling shared by one person, and a fictional character, at that. Ricky Fitts, the soulful, eccentric, artistic neighbor of the protagonist in American Beauty, captures this emotion when he films a dead bird near his high school campus. When a shallow cheerleader asks him “why” he is doing this, he responds simply, “Because it’s beautiful.” To this she retorts, “I think maybe you forgot your medication today, mental boy.”

The feeling is hard to explain on account of its intrinsic contradiction. As I gaze at the lifeless, glistening entrails and blood-matted fur of this fallen creature, I feel its emptiness, its nothingness, its lifelessness. I am reminded that at any moment, I might become like the body on the road. I am, for a moment, taken down to the level of dirt, reunited with my essence. However, in being alive and conscious, I then rise out of the gloom to a new appreciation of the simplest aspects of my being: heartbeat, breath, thought, and sense.

Regardless of the feeling’s obscurity among the panoply of human emotions, I stand by my bluesy dead-rabbit high. Roadkill captures a special beauty: random, yet inevitable; ordinary, but sacred as a grave; brutal, yet untroubled as the deepest sleep. It is a kind of death untouched by social custom — for, after all, there is no decorum for looking at an animal’s corpse — and, as such, brings the mind to an unsullied sort of consciousness, where one need not take any action but what comes naturally. And, standing naked and curious before the brute fact of death compels a person to resurface from a long illusory swim, like a long-submerged whale, for a breath of reality, a glimpse of the true light of the stars, or a moment of peace beneath the glowing mystery of the moon.

There’s a unity all living creatures have in death. In looking down at death, one looks down at the world from a god’s-eye view, as it were, and sees — behold! — a billion scattered strangers’ souls marching a finite parade. With one’s eyes sunken into the abyss, there appears nothing more precious, nothing more coveted, nothing more beautiful than a single moment of shared consciousness. In death there is no East or West, North or South, male or female, Jew or Gentile. There is no privilege, no wealth, no fame, no power — but only one great fellowship of compassion. In the certainty of death, our sins unshackle us, our great ideals unburden us, and the fire of hatred sputters, steams, and cools like lava rushing into an endless sea.

And so, here I am, riding the slow, undulating waves of my bluesy dead-rabbit high. I am refreshed in death; it is the air that meets my lips as I rise from the ocean of illusion to breathe. And with two fresh lungfuls of air, I take my time living, sensing, thinking — before it’s my time to bring someone else to this special state of mind.

Thank You, Kind Stranger, For My Soul

This weekend I visit the old, quiet town of Northfield, MN, the college town with which I fell in love just five years ago. My years in this small town were my very first extended glimpse into a different culture--the gentle oh-jeez youbetcha rhythm of the Midwest. To my cold, dark Bostonian reticence and standoffishness, it was a warm and cheerful dawn.

This morning, I was walking down a calm and dew-soaked suburb's road in Northfield. The sky above was a thick gray ceiling of impenetrable cloud, and all around me, summer-green trees drooped heavy with the rain they caught in last night's storm. My eyes, which for several months had adjusted to the claustrophobic streets of Boston, glided over these Minnesotan streets like wide-winged birds in a limitless arboreal paradise. As I moseyed down my private tree-lined highway, the tremulous calls of birds mixed seamlessly with the low, rumbling growl of some man's lawnmower not too far down the street.

The rumble of the mower rose with every step I took. In the wash of its hum, I passed great, spacious houses, which stood placid and solemn like monolithic guardians on the banks of a paved river. The humming of the mower grew more present, and I looked across the expanse of pavement to the operator, a gray-haired man in shorts and dad socks whose belly bulged behind a gray college tee-shirt. I smiled as I approached the man, as if I held some beautiful secret, and as we drew closer, I turned my head to the lawn-mowing man. He turned to me. I lifted up a hand. He lifted his in reciprocity. There was no word, no smile, but in a moment like a bubble on the surface of a pond, I became, to this unknown lawn-mowing man, a neighbor who deserved a wave.

On I walked, but my thoughts lingered in reflection on that moment of exchange. I felt that I'd received a gift, but what was given me? It was surely nothing tangible, but psychological: a message, a signal. I gave mine, my wave, and said my seeing. He heard my seeing, and said he saw me back. In an instant, we established our equality: as seers, messengers, interpreters. And, like a single drop of blood in a glass of water, the wave instilled a human tint to my morning; it flushed my blood of Boston's cruel impassibility. I was renewed, made human, clean.

Be aware: I don't exalt this Midwest town beyond its due; it's not a fairy tale; it has its grit and grime spread thick as any other human colony. But for a man who since September marched a social death on Boston streets, it is good to know that, here, in this small, humble, peaceful town, the "neighbor" lives.