The Promise

Last night I got a call for a ride in the middle of playing Holst’s Jupiter at a symphony rehearsal, and had to drive off through the quiet streets–with dark silhouettes of leaves swirling down from the trees and crunching under the tires–to pick up Walker from his play rehearsal. Perhaps it was the music still swirling through my head, the warmth of the evening, and the frequent sight of still, dark lumps by the side of the road, but all the schedules, best-laid plans, and back-up plans that failed sort of fell away and I was content to be simply traveling through the dark.

This morning more schedules and plans failed, while acorns fell sporadically onto the wooden deck outside, and I’m hoping I can continue my calm attitude, although I’m thinking of my friend from London who told me this summer that he’d found a mug he thought would be perfect for me that says “Now Panic and Freak Out” with the picture of the crown upside down, to parody “Keep Calm and Carry On.”

Usually I’m an optimist, but lately I’ve become more of a fatalist, especially with the trees turning and the way it “gets dark early now.” It all makes me think of this poem, “The Promise,” from Michael David Madonick’s volume Waking The Deaf Dog:

The Promise

You’ve seen them dead in the street. Birds—
pigeons, sparrows, hawks fallen from the sky.
You think, at first, they were just tired
of it all, seen everything, enough, couldn’t
think their way out, they just dropped dead
in the middle of a flap. But that’s not it,
I know, that’s not it. I’ve been told everything
has a promise. Everything. Seeds, people,
clouds. I’ve been told the acorn already knows
that it is large, that the tree inside it
is waiting to be filled. That nests
are being made in the mid of a crow
that isn’t born yet. It is hard for me
to believe too. But I tell you, I believe
it now. I have seen planes fall from the sky,
people stop dead in the street. Just yesterday,
a plane flying from Kanpur to Katmandu crashed
into the side of a mountain, the pilot repeating,
“I see the airport, I see the lights. We’re
coming in.” You say “It wasn’t there.” I say,
he saw it. I say, he saw an airport that wasn’t
built yet and birds are flying into promises. I
know it’s hard to believe. We all hit something.
I’ve been told, this is the dark room
We practice being blind in.

I like the idea that “birds are flying into promises,” and even that “we all hit something.” Because it’s comforting to think that there’s a plan. Even if it fails, it’s nice to think that there is one, as I set off on another journey to fulfill a promise made before I was even born, possibly while I was still a twinkle in my father’s eye.

We have reservations at a restaurant called Celebrations. But we’ll see if any of our plans come to fruition.  I guess it’s like my brother, a former photojournalist, once told me about taking photographs–take a lot of them, and you might get one or two good ones.