Bankrupt Descriptors

A while back I left my apartment around midnight and ran for about an hour. The snowflakes fell small and slow. They resembled glitter in the streetlights. At one point I took a right onto the trails—just me, the darkness, the light of the snow. I was fortunate enough to have been the first to run the trails since the snow fell. No other footprints marred the landscape.

Okay, stop. As I describe this, I’m sickened.  The description looks like any other winter night. There’s nothing special about it, yet there was something special about it, something that I cannot portray with my limited vocabulary. My brain scrolls through bankrupt descriptors, and as the words tick by, I check them off one by one and give up.   Attempting to describe this night has only served to silence me, to humble me. Maybe one of the precursors for beauty is that it can only be spoken through gasps, odd facial expressions, and absolute humility.  And if that’s the case, maybe it’s okay to receive confused looks and crinkled noses at my pathetic descriptions, which reminds me,

Last fall a friend of mine found a salamander for the first time. Even at 25 years old, she was so enthused that, as we ran through the woods, she stopped to show me the exact log it had been hiding under.

And then I recall when my little cousin, Joe, found a baby turtle. It was about the size of his thumb—cute.

“So, Joe, do you have a name for your turtle?”

He smiled, letting it crawl across his palm, “Yup.  Joe.”

As he passed it on to his little sister, she went on, “But what if it’s a girl?”

Joe shrugged his shoulders, “Then I’ll call her Josephine…but Joe for short.”

And as he ran off to find a camera, I had to look at the turtle again, extra carefully this time, because there must be something…

Most walk right by the sculpture, eager to see flashier pieces of art.  My dad, however, ponders the bronze and says under his breath, “He’s probably trying to pass his wisdom on to the younger generation.” The sculpture is an old man beside his grandson. He has a beard, a cane, and his bronze wrinkles are cut deep, especially around the eyes. A few weeks later my nieces come to visit. They take a picture with Papa beside the sculpture. Dad acts almost reluctant to take the picture, as if humbled by the prospect of being compared to the old man.  

And as I think on these instances of others’ experienced beauty (C.S. Lewis may call it glimpses of joy?), I run through the shin-deep snow, an empty palate awaiting the paint of my shadowy footprints…and revel at the fact that I can only gasp and continue on. 

Issues, the Rabbit

Larry lives in the Broad Ripple area of Indianapolis. His face is chalky weathered for his age. Chalky. He smiles often, showing off the space between his two front teeth. Larry works at a restaurant and often claims leftover bread so he can feed the ducks by the canal.

Larry rides a Mary Poppins bike, thick and upright with a seat like a life raft. A rust speckled cage rolls along behind the bicycle, rattling on top of its homemade wagon.

On arriving home, Larry sticks his pet rabbit in the cage, climbs back on his bike and heads for the Monon trail where he lets the rabbit hop freely around the gazebo. Afterwards, Larry rides a few hundred feet to feed the ducks. Dark will camouflage him before he leaves.

I met Larry one day while running the Monon trail. Stopping to stretch at the gazebo, I asked to pet the rabbit. “Yea, go on. You can pet her. Actually, if you cover her eyes, I may be able to catch her and put her back in the cage. If she sees me comin’, she’ll run away.” I covered the rabbit’s eyes. Larry picked her up and held her.

“What’s her name?”

“My girl’s name is Issues. You see, my ex’s ex gave her his Issues, “ Larry gestured to the rabbit, “Then, when we broke up my ex didn’t wanted Issues so she left her Issues with me.”  He smiled. Then winced as Issues’ teeth pierced his finger.

I told him my parents have a dog named Trouble who digs up my mom’s flowers and scatters my dad’s plant labels all over the yard.

I told him how much I love Trouble’s dirty footprints on black dress pants.

Larry smiled. He understood. 

The Oxygenated Rut

Lacey* was sent to the hospital a few weeks ago. On her return, the doctor ordered she wear oxygen all the time. Unfortunately, Lacey does not seem to enjoy the foreign plastic impeding her nose and continually blowing air into her nostrils. It’s a constant itch and the hose stretches across her right arm, hampering her ability to pick out correct crayon colors:  apricot or peach (according to Lacey, these colors are not different because one has hair and the other doesn’t. Who knew?!)?  So, she takes the oxygen off. I put it back on. She takes it off. I put it back on. She takes it off. I put it back on. She yells and scratches. I explain why she needs it and put it back on (while attempting to keep foul language from entering the explanation). So lately I’ve been quiet and fairly unresponsive to her pleas, attempting to avoid contact with her as much as possible… because she’ll take the oxygen out. Then I’ll have to put it back.  

We’re stuck in an oxygenated rut. 

Tonight, though, there was a slight breakthrough. She was angry. I was angry. She took off her oxygen. I put it back on. She took off her oxygen. I put it back on. She blew really hard. I flew back in my chair as if hit by colossal winds and accused her of trying to blow me away. She laughed a little. I blew back. At this point I was really hoping she would blow away…perhaps the wheelchair would roll, roll, roll until I could no longer see it or the oxygen tank attached to it.  Lacey made no attempt to acquiesce my feeble winds. Keeping the alien plastic in her nose, she continued to blow.

Later, we decided that she was blowing so well, the oxygen must be working. Maybe tomorrow she’ll be strong enough to blow me right through the wall! After the way I’ve been acting, this seems to be a master motivator.

The other day I asked my sister, Emma, about love. Since love is supposed to be a choice, is it more about actions and outwardly choosing to do what’s best, not giving in to what’s really on the inside? Lately, it has been difficult to love the screaming, scratching, swatting version of Lacey.  She only behaves this way because she doesn’t understand, and I imagined a wind blowing her away like a Winnie the Pooh episode, for goodness’ sake!

Our conclusion: I should probably pray more. For transformation. 

*name changed