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A Stirring of Discontent
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By:
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FlatsDude
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Mood:
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Tired
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Date:
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11/30/2007 07:03:28
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Music:
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None
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A STIRRING OF DISCONTENT
Captain Gary Henderson
It’s not only me. I’ve heard stories. I’ve read what my friend, Roger Stouff, just wrote in his column this week entitled, “Medicine”. He’s feeling what I’m feeling, but he has medicine, strong and ancient. Curtis has felt it. Larry has felt it. And for two weeks, perhaps three, I’ve felt that stirring of discontent. But Roger has medicine his father left him. A bag he’s never seen inside, and the medicine inside is strong…Indian strong. My medicine isn’t contained in a small, leather bag with fringe, but my father left it for me, just like Roger’s dad left his bag for him. Different bags; same medicine. My medicine is fresh air and saltwater, mangroves and bent cedar trees, seaweed and bottom grasses, mud and sand.
Curtis has medicine, too. Medicine his grandfather left him. His medicine is strong and is like mine. Curtis’ written words echo in my thoughts and remind me of my discontent. “While idling through Haulover, I had company, which was nice. A young dolphin followed me for a good clip, and then would come up for air within mere inches of the side of the boat. I watched her and was in awe....the luck of some creatures, living in the water, free; no worries other than man, of course. I think I envy that dolphin.
. I was less than five miles into my trip home when I saw something that slowed my racing mind again. In broad daylight, on the side of I-95 at 6:20 pm, there stood a doe and a yearling feeding in the tall grass not yet cut by the mowers I had passed while entering the main artery of Florida. I quickly down shifted and pulled my truck to the side of the road and got out just to watch. I watched those two deer as they ate. They never flinched as life passed them by; a whirlwind of cars, trucks, and vehicles that defied description, some at eighty-five miles per hour, or better. The deer never moved except to pluck at the earth’s bounty. It was then I felt it creep back into my head. It’s time to slow down.”
Finishing Curtis’ story, I sat back in my chair here in my office that’s lighted by artificial, fluorescent tubes, air that’s cooled and filtered by a noisy air conditioner. Unnecessary noises of ringing phones, others’ conversations from down the hallway. Voices from a television left on spouting loud commercials wanting me to buy a car, or hire a lawyer, or stop smoking by buying their chewing gum with a nice fruity coating. I wanted to scream out in frustration! A frustration I now know that is shared by at least four of us that are miles apart. Probably more.
After reading what Curtis wrote, I read Larry’s essay. Even though I enjoyed it very much, it only helped to remind me of my dismay, the twisting of my emotions and the tight knots between my shoulder blades and my spine. Again, though, words of another discontented soul pierces my thoughts and drives me further to seeking solitude out there somewhere, alone, but not lonely.
Within Larry’s words I understood his need for the trip…
“I eventually stuffed the bow on a shoreline and hoofed a mile or so to the beach. Not another soul in sight, the tranquility I sought was at hand. I walked along the water's edge for a ways and decided to take a shot into the inviting waters. My second into the trough resulted in a scrappy lil blue fish.
I spent a while just soaking in the late afternoon rays and meandering along the beach scavenging. My most interesting find was an empty Havana Club rum bottle that had settled onto the beach on a previous high tide. My mind strayed to the south wondering how long of a journey the bottle had taken.”
Fate was calling me, perhaps. Here, within lines on emails and in stories, three others were finding their medicine. I needed to find mine. I know where it is.
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