Auric, or Pertaining to Gold

14 July 2020

Upon first awakening in the morning, I am quite aware of my mortality. At 64 my body carries enough aches and pains that getting out of bed tells me unequivocally I am still alive but that this is not assured for any length of time.  The twinges in my joint and muscles as I am swinging my legs down to slip on my sports shorts, and then raising my feet one by one to slide into my shoes, emphasizes to me that I am growing older.  These ritual motions remind also of all the stupid things I’ve ever done to this bone and cartilage frame. Those summers of water skiing and those years of bicycle riding placed this tenderness in my knees and ankles. Oh, and there were those years of walking on concrete floors back in my days as a liquor store clerk and earlier as a soft-serve stand server. I doubt anyone who has traveled these many years through this life, does not feel some shoulder pain.

Ignoring my muscles objections to moving from inertia to activity, I step outside into the golden sunshine. Often, I use the word golden often to describe morning light.  But what other words could I use, radiant, flaxen, glowing? Auric? Outside of my front door I am refreshed by the light of this brand-new day. You only get so many mornings, so many sunsets, so many rides down a backcountry road with the windows down and the stereo up. Embrace these moments. You only get to see a new flower blooming once a year and really how many more times will that be? These years, they are going by so much faster now. 

Heading off down the street a car whizzes by me with a kayak fastened sideways to its roof. Suddenly I am lost in memories of canoeing the Betsy River, the Muskegon river, the Au Sable river, and the Sturgeon River. Good times on summer weekend days past. How quickly 10, 20, 30 and 40 years slip away. Can’t stop it. Ah to be sitting on a river bank with a vodka and lemonade with good friends like Terry or Mark or John just watching the hours and the river flow away.

60 degrees out now and the world is relatively still. Not bad conditions as I head west down the neighborhood streets of my walk. Must do something to make sure that my cardiac system is functioning and that I’m breathing well and that my body is processing food into energy as it should. I want to see so many more sunrises, so many more sunsets. I want to smell the blooms of flowers I’ve never seen before. I want to taste food but I’ve never tasted before. I want to live. Like most people I don’t want some odd stray virus to rob me of the joys of the road ahead.

Living in the summer the pandemic I have been isolated from direct touch, direct contract, and direct interaction with other human beings. But I’ve been more in touch with the rhythms of natural life than I have been since I was a preteen. I know what summer means. I know the times when to walk on these days. I can sense when rain is coming. I am celebrating the once a year very short window in which fresh sweet cherries are available. I have learned again the joys of the early hours of the day unfettered by the responsibility of a job.

Today with bird songs providing a joyful soundtrack I walk and I embrace the experience of a dry cool summer day. God knows how many more times I will get to awaken to see the light that is found on a morning like this. But I’ll be damned if I let the day slip into obscurity without having made the most of it. In the secret life of early morning I celebrate with the divine has given me. I celebrate my fingers and my toes. I celebrate the smells of green lawns and flowering bushes. I celebrate the golden light in all its stained-glass splendor, creating speckled patterns as it filters through leafy green trees striking the brick walls of clean and prosperous looking houses.

Last night before I drifted off to sleep, I had watched a program on an art form I never knew existed. It was called Cante. Cante is a form of polyphonic singing introduced by one voice singing a measure with perfect pitch. Then a second voice takes over adding color and range. That voice is more melodious. Finally, a choir came in a cappella. According to the narrator the songs of Cante were sung by the common workers on the way to and from work, in the fields and on the way to mines and factories. The origin of this particular style of singing appears to have been lost to history. Could have been the Moors, the Romans or maybe even the Celts. But it was clearly a labor of love to participate.

As I walk out this morning I too am singing although I am not headed off for work, or to school, or to any other obligation. I am singing a song I’ve had long in my heart. Learned it when I was a teen. The chorus concludes with the line, “if you saw through my eyes what would you do? “ Me, I just get up each day and fight the inertia, the aches and pains and go out and savor what has been offered to me in these the remaining years of my life.