Under a Willow Tree

Under a willow tree on a white sand beach, I was sitting on a wooden bench looking out to the blue water of the Gulf of Mexico.

I was at Fort de Soto Park just outside Saint Petersburg, Florida, waiting for an old friend to show up. After a couple of years in the low hills of Atlanta, I had decided to have a change of scenery, and the bright blue sky merged with the silvery blue sea bordered with fine white sand lined with uncouth grass and bushes and disheveled palm trees was a welcome sight for my eyes.

I was sitting on a wooden bench in the shade of a pale green willow tree, savoring the quietness of an uncommercial beach. No expensive hotels, no luxurious resorts, no fancy restaurants here. Only the murmuring soft surf and the occasional seagull cries broke the silence. Once in a while a couple of joggers following the trail passed by and nodded me a smile.

Did the wind that was blowing right into my face come all the way from Mexico? Did the birds that were gracefully gliding their curved wings above my head fly from another land where a different language was spoken? And that dark, hulking cargo ship slowly passing by in the bay, where did it come from and where was it heading to? The atmosphere itself carried a whiff of the exotic here, where a different history sat on the land and Spanish names snugly resided on nearby street signs.

My old friend just appeared around a bend in the path leading from the beach to a parking lot. He was carrying a plastic shopping bag, which must be our lunch he'd just got from a deli in town. Short, gaunt and smiling, he did not change much since the last time we had met.

A handshake, then he sat down beside me under the willow tree. How's life treating you, old buddy? How's your daughter doing, is her autism getting any better? And your wife, is the cancer still retreating? Do you still work two jobs to make ends meet?

The whims of life had thrown us together three decades ago in a classroom which was now just a faded memory, but the long years of continuing friendship gave us a lot to talk about. Friends we hadn't heard from for years; dreams we hadn't thought of for even more years. What we had gained, what we had lost, and what we could still expect from our lives ahead. We left the bench and took a long walk along the beach, breathing in the briny sea air, pressing our toes into the sand, watching people swimming or just relaxing under colorful umbrellas.

We stopped at a pavilion and bought a shaved ice each, which reminded us of our childhood when shaved ice was about the only treat affordable on our meager and irregular spending money. We leisurely enjoyed the sight and sounds of a public beach on a weekend. Then out of the blue he said:

- I feel so tired, like a candle burned from both ends. I can't remember the last time I had some time for myself.

When we parted, we had a tight handshake, and that was all I could offer my best friend.

Key Ring

I had never realized the meaning of a key ring until I sold my shop a little over two years ago, when only two keys remained on my ring, one to my house, the other to my car.

Less keys meant less responsibility, less burden, which up to that point had hung heavily on my mind. Now that all the other keys were gone, it felt like a dense mist had been lifted from myself. I saw more colors, observed more details, paid more attention to my surroundings. I felt healthier. I felt the joy of liberation.

Yet I knew that this buoyancy would not last long. Sooner or later, I would have to assume other responsibilities and add other keys to my ring. In this world where we live, unless one leads the life of a drifter, keys are a requirement. They mean you have access to something or some place that others don't. They separate and categorize, assert privileges and remind of duties, delight and depress people. In an ideal world there should be no keys. I wonder if there are keys in Heaven.

At this point, I still have only two keys in my ring, which is true but not entirely true. I now have a badge to wear around my neck, a badge which electronically open doors to the corporate building where I currently work. Not quite out of it, am I?

Sketches from Boyhood

I remember when I was a boy walking through green fields of rice laden with the light fragrance of half-forming grains. The narrow borders between patches were lined with tiny wild flowers in yellow and purple. Sometimes my eyes caught little fish swimming in the clear water around the lush rice stalks. Where they came from and what lay ahead of them in life, they did not seem to care, but I would wonder for just a wee moment.

When the rice got riper, birds would flock to the fields to feast on the golden grains. To us who had toiled and sweated for the wetland to eventually yield its fruit that would give us a living, these birds were like blatant robbers, so we would scream and jeer and scare them away. We would stay until the stars came out in the dark velvety sky and the birds all went back to their nests and the insects began their nocturnal chirping and mosquito bites started to be felt, then we would walk home with peace both in the landscape and in our heart.

I remember a small river meandering behind our house, the bank on our side low and grassy, while the other side was high and bare almost like a cliff of red earth. I could glimpse mysterious thatched roofs half-hidden among tall green bamboo trees at the top of the high bank, all the more appealing because the kids said people grew sugar canes there, while on our side there were only patches of tobacco plants with their broad furry leaves and tiny pink flowers, which were inedible and did not interest me one bit.

My brother, who was four years older than I was, drew from that river a lot more than I could ever hope for. He could swim, he could fish, nameless little white fish and sometimes sizable carps which tasted delicious after being deep fried. As for me I would content myself by just sitting there on the grass watching the water flow, its color a cold grey occasionally flashing with a reflection of sunshine whenever and wherever a frolicking fish jumped into the air. Sometimes following the sound of grenade explosions upstream, a procession of floating dead fish, both large and small, materialized before my shocked eyes. Then with a sinking heart I knew unpleasant people existed very close to me, people who did not even need the fish they had killed in such an indiscriminate manner. These incidents always left me morose until I was otherwise distracted.

There was a brick kiln about a mile from school, where we kids would go for clay for our handicraft projects. We would take clay from discarded malformed bricks when they were still moist, cool to the touch and still malleable. From it we would make cubes and pyramids, elephants and chicken. My hands were by no means those of a sculptor, and the masterpieces I turned out were abstract at best. It was invariably a frustrating experience for me.

All the same going to that brick kiln was always a pleasure. What would captivate my attention was not the kiln itself, but the numerous ponds full of lotus flowers right next to it. Generous pink petals protectively surrounding yellow cores, broad green leaves floating in emerald water, then more and more of them all over the place until my senses became overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of their colorful radiance.

At twilight, across a meadow of rough, tall grass, the orange and purple afterglow put in sharp relief a smattering of clouds, wispy and eerie, as if coming from a long lost fairyland. I would stop to drink in that sight, that moment of nature revealing its finest magic. The trill of insects, the croaking of frogs, the occasional cry of birds hurrying back to their nests sounded lonely and gave shivers to a young boy still miles from home; yet the awareness of a different world apart from human hustling and toiling, judging and hurting, was quite fascinating and strangely comforting.

Only now that I realize I was rich to have so much to remember.

Corinna, Corinna

About 200 miles south of Atlanta I stopped by a McDonald's for lunch. Normally I frown on fast food, but while on the road one cannot be choosy and convenience seems more important.

I was tired but lighthearted. My old worrying self had departed for a while now, and things were looking up. There was this gentle but perpetual warmth inside that formed an easy smile on my face. Some people looked at me and smiled back.

An old, familiar song started playing. "I love Corinna, tell the world I do..." This song came out long before I was even born; but the soft, loving melody still told me of tender love, young and trusting, simple and sincere, undiluted and unabashed. It struck a sensitive chord and triggered a buoyancy in me.

The road ahead was still long though.

Good to Be Back

I am typing these lines in my new home, heart and mind at ease, the peaceful quietness conducive to reminiscence and thoughtfulness. In the past two years so many things happened so quickly that I hardly know where to start.

Business sold, unnecessarily big house sold, a road trip to the Grand Canyon with detour in Dallas, a new job and the adjustment coming with it, a trip half way around the world to get married, new friends, new family, then the imminent fatherhood which is expected to change my life radically -- did I leave out anything?

Above all, I feel much closer to God, which means a new and rich spiritual life and the reason I feel rested inside. I am happy now.