It's birthday time for Tiffy, so I write him a tale...
WE CAN EVEN SING
I lie prone on the sand.
A gentle morning breeze blows from the west. It was faster at night, and will pick up again by mid-morning. At this speed, it makes no sound; not even a whisper. Back in the mountains or at the farm, it would have caused leaves to rustle on the trees, grass to murmur, clothes to flap on the lines. A bit faster and it would have started whistling and moaning softly as it struck obstacles, went through narrow places or rounded corners. Here, in the open space where nothing protrudes above the sand, the breeze does not even sigh.
I am propped up on my elbows, a rifle in my hands, butt fitting ever so snugly in the hollow of my right shoulder. The lines of the rifle and that of my body are at an angle. The two axes meet at my shoulder to create a hollow space padded with muscle where the butt is placed without any danger of hurting the collar bone, and my cheek can be pressed against the butt without ending up with a bruised face.
I wish I could keep telling you about the rifle, but I cannot; this is not a rifle story, this is a sand story. After a few minutes I can see a thin film of very fine sand on the barrel. I bring the rifle down. My finger gathers dust as I run it along the stock. I get up and dust myself off. My body has left a discernible impression on the ground, there are little pits where my elbows rested and a bit of sand piled up where I dug in my left foot.
The sand is so fine that the gentle breeze lifts up its smallest powdery grains and blows them about a bit. In less than half an hour there will be no remaining impression of man or rifle. The sand would settle in the dents and obscure their form.
I have not done it myself, but I’m sure there are people who study the movement of the dunes. I can see that they are sloping gently up from the windward side where, as it rises, the wind deposits some of its load. It is pushed up and the slope is built inch by inch as day and night, the wind shifts more of it. From the top of the slope, the dune suddenly falls away steeply leewards. One day we had desert driving practice, and it was so much fun to race our jeeps up the windward slope and cut off the engines just as the front wheels topped the crest! The sudden silence of the engine gave an eerie feeling; crossing the crest was like being at the top of a roller coaster. Our hearts would be in our throats, breaths would catch, and the vehicle would sink down the steep side of the dune, waddling its rear as it seemed to settle deeper. The trick was to kick off again just before it reached a standstill!
I wish I could go on about driving jeeps and trucks in the desert, but this is not a driving story; this is a sand story. Even as we look back at where we floated our vehicles down from, there are no tracks left behind that say, “Jeep”. Yes, the sand is definitely disturbed; the crest of the dune has been damaged for some of its length, and an undefined depression runs down the slope; but not even marked wheel ruts are left behind - the sand has flowed back almost like water.
As the sun rises higher, the sea of sand gleams almost white. The morning was a soft brown, much like the hair of a camel. Towards evening it will change to gold and then to the rust of autumn leaves falling beside a lake in the far-off mountains. The brief dusk will be an aging grey. The night will be an effervescence of stars low in the sky and all around. There’s a lot of clear night sky to be seen even when one is up in the mountains, but here in the desert, there are no looming structures for reference, and the bouquet of stars seems to grow from where one stands, reach up into the sky, and fall back in an immense shower of petals.
The emptiness of the day is not so at night. The night abounds with creatures that were not to be seen anywhere during the day. There are snakes, and hyenas, and one must dust one’s boots for dark red scorpions every time one puts them on. There are bound to be many more creatures, including little insects and birds, and of course, mosquitoes. The beam of the headlights will often catch delicate little deer with mascara encircling their wide eyes and running in a band down each flank. They sometimes end up in one’s stomach, but one must thank them for providing sustenance and hope to absorb some of their gracefulness, agility and innocence from the food. To think of the hunt as a conquest would be barbaric.
And then there are the spirits of the night. Whether they are in the air or in the mind, they are quite real. Sometimes they keep one company and make one laugh self consciously, as if one knows they are there; at other times they make one uneasy, because being scared seems stupid.
All the time, the gentle breeze lifts the powdery grains of sand and lets them fall again, brushes them up in minute swirls and releases them. The sands shift; yesterdays dunes look a bit different today.
Every few months, the wind will change direction. Within a few weeks of the change, the dunes that now slope up from the west and fall sharply to the east will be turned around and everything will seem to flow in a different direction. The breeze won’t be gentle all the time. Sand will rise higher in the air and sting like small darts. The sun will burn overhead in the sky. Winds will roar.
After some more time, calm will be restored.
The sand will keep shifting, yesterday's impressions will not disturb its graceful flow today, and today's carcasses will be buried and gone tomorrow. Sometimes a freak wind will uncover something long gone by, but it will only be a skeleton with none of the energy of its living form.
Every reality is an illusion. Every illusion is a reality.
We choose our lives. We choose the base our minds return to when at rest. We choose the havens we take refuge in when troubled. When we are surrounded by seas of sand or snow or water or flowers, we can still choose to wallow inwardly in sorrows and not see the heaven around us. When we are engulfed by seas of misery and sadness, we can still choose to fill the inner spaces with fragrance and beauty and starry skies.
Each time we close our eyes and open them again, the sands have shifted. Each time, some old hollows have been filled, and some new spaces are empty.
Emptiness can be a very fulfilling experience. What defines us today will not be there tomorrow, and we can choose to fill the vacuum as we like. We can soar in inner skies of gratitude, hope and eagerness. We can be in a race to keep filling empty spaces as they become apparent, or we can take time to shout into the hollows and hear our voices echoing back at us.
We can even sing.
