One day last spring I took a moment to look at the sky. It was a fair-weather day when the air was gentle and pure and, as Clifford Crawley once wrote of the cirrus clouds, “they sail like ships on high.”

I recovered a childhood memory, maybe 8 years old, sitting on the low wall bordering our driveway. I lay back on the grass and study those clouds overhead as they float past, billowing, changing shape in a slow boil. I look for an image I may recognize: bunny ears or perhaps a toad.

I‘m sure I had worries that day, the kinds that angst children have: Does Pammy really like me? Why can’t I hit Al’s curveball? But I was innocent of life’s true tests, able to put all other thoughts aside and spend time just WATCHING THOSE CLOUDS. I had no idea what a privileged life I was living.

That day last spring, I needed that memory. I was in a stress fog of vague origin. Perhaps it was the stockpile of spring chores on my list. Or maybe some pending medical tests. And there was always that morning that past February when I’d turned on my phone to read that two old friends had died within hours of each other. I went for a walk and did the math: Ninety years of friendships, gone. 

I saw in that child lost in the clouds a hint of mindfulness. I had toyed with mindfulness a few years back when I had a bit of surgery. It helped, but I’d since fallen away. I wasn’t good at taking the time to just be with time as it passed.

That day last spring I promised I’d try enjoying good moments when they presented, and less time worrying and hurrying when the world intervened. About two weeks later, I was handed a stark reminder of that pledge.

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That day last spring I promised I’d try enjoying good moments when they presented, and less time worrying and hurrying when the world intervened.

dan lyksett

author

I was late packing for my five-day campout at Wyalusing State Park. I was late hitting the road. And when I got south of La Crosse I came upon a detour – bridge under repair – that sent me east instead of south. When I hit Viroqua, the detour pointed south again and then back west. I suspected I was being led in a large, time-consuming circle.

It was a fair-weather day with sailing clouds, and I was on vacation. But instead of enjoying the journey, I was pissed. They were messing with my self-imposed deadline. I spotted a wayside on the road ahead and decided to pull over and consult my gazetteer for a quicker, better, more self-serving route.

I pulled in and parked alongside an old stone marker, like an upright tombstone. It read “Black Hawk Trail.”

It continued: “At shallow pond 115 rods due south Black Hawk’s 700 Sac Indians encamped July 31, 1832. Soldiers found six decrepit Indians there and ‘left them behind.’ Lee Sterling in 1846 found a handful of silver brooches there, hence concluded those killed were squaws.”

I had stumbled upon the third of seven markers erected in 1930 tracing a tragic tale of misunderstanding, bad faith, ineptitude, and outright racism that culminated in the slaughter of hundreds of Black Hawk’s people in the summer of 1832.

I couldn’t help but scan the landscape for “a shallow pond 115 rods due south.” The political me was once again outraged at those who would deny us knowledge of the past to help us guide our future.

But I was also disappointed in myself. I was on vacation. I had food and shelter. I had an open road and fair skies. But I had taken my privilege for granted.

Before I got back behind the wheel, I made myself another promise. It was nothing life-changing or even something I expected to last beyond today. For the next few hours, I’ll enjoy my journey, no matter where it leads. I will take time to just breathe.

And perhaps, if I’m really lucky, I’ll even spend enough time watching the clouds sail overhead to discover bunny ears or perhaps a toad.