"il miglior condimento e l'apetito."

010930
Lake Travis, Texas
Maybe that which we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly. Or rather “il miglior condimento e l’apetito.”
In any case, yesterday was another one for the books. Our little boat, neglected for so long, came through for us once more.
Late in the season, when the weather moderates a little, many of the summer boaters are already putting their rigs up for the winter, but for us, that body of water held up from flooding the towns and farms downstream on the “little Colorado” river, by dams built in the late forties and early fifties of the last century, named for a hero of the Texas war for independence, and commander of the doomed garrison of the Alamo, Col. William B. Travis, our refuge and oasis, Lake Travis welcomed us once again, as it has so many times before.
It is one of those ironies of life that if it were not for a serious misfortune, we would never have been able to afford her.
Back in 1984, we had just moved down from Dallas where Anita and I had met. The long paths that led us there must remain the subject of future excursions into our peculiar histories.
But for me, it was a “coming back” to Austin. Compared to Dallas, Austin seemed so much more accomodating — looking back who knows what other paths might have uncovered — but days like yesterday, on the one hand glorious, perfect in so many ways, on the other hand only emphasize the brevity of life. To think of all the other possibilities, the other paths not taken, is to miss the point.
Julian of Norwich said, “history is nothing more than a pattern of individual moments, each perfect and infinite in itself.”
It is in the pondering of such moments that all insight comes. I stood in one — knee deep in flood waters, the rain falling on my head — and in another I first launched this little rig into the waters of the Colorado — and many years have passed between those moments until now — but the distance is meaningless — no, less than meaningless — it doesn’t even exist, except perhaps in our own minds.
The physicists have an explanation for it, the mathematicians formulae and theorems. The theologians have riddles, but lovers have the best and truest explanation of all.
To them I dedicate these pages. One of their number, I know what they know, what Julian knew, what an infant knows in her mother’s gaze — the fools may prattle about us, but we pay them no mind, as the sun sparkles on the water in moire patterns — shifting and hypnotic — the birds cry, the wind blows, and to us — it is all the same.
Ponder one of these pearls with me, as the pleasant afternoon sun filtered through the canvas shade over a hardwood deck halfway up one of these innumerable limestone cliffs dotted with junipers, live oaks, rocks. The air filled with the hiss of chirping crickets, normally quiet this time of day, but now that it is cooling off, their song has a poignancy — how much time left? how much time left? how much time left?
But they don’t know that time is an illusion — they don’t know what I know, as my sandals slap on the deck and I approach my wife from behind — she doesn’t hear me yet, approaching her — this neck I know so well, this hair, this contented smile, obscured behind her sunglasses, looking out on the water, positively high, but not the wine — well, maybe a little, but the wine, as they say, is no more “il condimento” than “l’apetito” — the heart longs for this moment like salt for water, like gravity, understood without comprehension — and the boats play down below — so commonplace, but made otherworldly in this moment because they don’t know that they’re merely pieces of glass, turned in a child’s kaleidoscope, no more than candy for our eyes, and in this moment I can forget that the truth hurts, like anticoagulant on the needle in our veins, the needle that brings life to others, or blessed relief.
In this moment I can forget that life is God’s challenge to us: “And what are you made of?” He seems to ask with every test, with every temptation, with every blessing.
How is it we come to be here, somewhere up this lazy river, on the Sandy Creek arm, not a quarter mile from where we once camped in a breathless tent on a steamy July Fourth in 1983, I guess. Who knows? Who cares?
And above us the sky is cloudless, but for a few wisps, down below is our little honeymoon boat, nameless, trusty, quaint, humble, adequate — and she doesn’t look the part of Gateway to Paradise, but looks can be deceiving.
There was a groove in my step and you know my life had a soundtrack as my sandals slapped that deck and everything was perfect in that moment as I approached my wife from behind, and that was a groove as she turned to see me and she smiled and the blue water sparkled behind her and the green hills caressed the pale sky but I didn’t see them, because all I could see was the love in my baby’s eye and we kissed.
And later we cruised out into the main body of the “lake” — just a wide river — but so much more to us — and our lives are like that river — so much water has passed under that bridge since we first floated out on an inflatable raft — the first S.S. Lowe, I dare say, so many memories, always mixed, always tinged, alloyed with the spirits of those no longer with us, and we ourselves are no longer the people we were in those moments — and the river is no longer the same river, but here it is and here we are, and the sun is going down now, fiery orange hiding behind a few wispy white clouds, and I’m getting bold enough to cut the engine out here as we have done so many times before, and the sailboats glide by us, each silently telling its own tale about lovers and families and lonely sailors, who all share this need to come back to the well, where we find renewal, better than any church, because, believe it my friend, God is here, and here He smiles on all lovers of the water, and as the faithful, ancient sun descends, the shadows lengthen on the fingers of the hills, and the big birds tickle the drafts that hold them up with their finger-like feathers, otherwise motionless, timeless, and this little boat carves out a space of air just for us two, as our thoughts fly back, ten, fifteen years when we were both younger and sitting together, right here, looking at the shadows stretch across these same hills, warming to this same now yellow, now orange, now red ball of a sun, farewell, old friend, see you tomorrow, God willing, but meanwhile, we have each other as companion. And once we floated out here when Anita was expecting, and now that person is a teenager, and once we did so again, and now that person is ten, and once we did so with my brothers, and we swam in the black water in the dark and watched the meteors shower, the sailboats grazed by us unlit, like ghosts in the night, and still we return, and still this faithful old girl conveys us and keeps us dry and carries us once more to port.
And like old hands, we tie up to the familiar moorings, making her fast, and we’re exhausted from joy and pleasure and love, and God bless us, we’re lucky to be alive, and thank Him for another day on this earth, another pearl on this thread, and for each other.
Drink deep sweetheart, this is what life is all about.