Misguided Guide

"...And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by..." -John Masefield

I saw a friend a few weeks ago. It had already been a few weeks since I'd seen him, and that's a long time, but not as long as the time before that, or the time before that or the time...sigh. Luckily, it's one of those friendships that, as time goes by with neither of us making contact, picks right back up as if no time has passed at all. Of course, it isn't intentional, this lapse in communication, but it is mutual, and no, it isn't okay, but we see it for what it is and know it isn't a rift.

People change, sometimes unseen, other times the change is as clear as the beard on my face. He had a health scare in recent months. But through surgery and a lifestyle change, he says he hasn't felt this good in quite some time. I was glad to hear that. But as we talked, I heard things that don't normally fall in line with things to be glad about. I heard him ask me for advice. Oh, boy. My experiences create a sordid story of wrong trees and how to bark up them...but, still, I try to understand and explain why the trees are being barked up. It isn't all kittens and lollipops, this blip on the radar of time we possess. Sometimes it's greasepaint and monthly bills. Eww, scary. But without a doubt, life keeps you on your toes as it leads you forward to inevitable change.

Late afternoon turned into early evening. I had to go. As I got into my car to leave, he pointed out the Moon, visible above the trees on the hillside. She was still a few days away from being full, but that took nothing away from her beauty. "Be safe," he said. I replied, pointing at the Moon, "I'll follow her home." I then left him with the same things always said about things we've gone through, things we're going through, and things to come and to not be strangers and making open promises of routine communication. And if we fail at our promises, we both know it isn't something that will end our friendship. We will carry on.

So I followed the nearly full Moon that was hanging above me, surrounded by these beautiful clouds that have been taking up residence in this sky around Chattanooga. Have you seen them? Small clouds that seem to be made with cookie cutter precision, marching across the field of blue, and in the distance, giant versions of those clouds; clouds that beget storms, looming up into the heavens. Beautiful. But soon, I was not surrounded by those friendly clouds. I was headed straight towards some angry ones. These clouds brought strong winds, heavy rain, and a gorgeously dangerous light display. It was this I was driving straight into.

As I was making my way through the weaving lanes of the road to home, the sky just opened up with heavy rain. The highest speed on the windshield wipers could barely keep up with the amount of water coming down. Along the unmowed edges of the road, the tall, windblown gone-to-seed grass seemed to lean out into my lane, reaching for a touch as I drove by. And then the lightning...oh, my. Unseen bolts lit up the angry clouds, and the seen ones were striking closer than I cared for them to be. When there's only a second or two between the crack of lightning and the boom of thunder...that lightning's pretty darn close.

As my driving slowed to a crawl, with the wipers on overtime, the rain falling sideways, the wind pushing me and the lightning blinding me and the thunder rattling windows, something drew my attention skyward. I spied up in the sky with my little eye, that fat ol' Moon that I had been following, peeking through the clouds. It was amazing to me that even a glimpse of the Moon was to be had. She wanted to be seen. I caught myself wondering if, like it's said about the Sun, the Moon was capable of burning through the clouds. But of course not, silly, she merely reflects, not emits light. But still, I envisioned the clouds fleeing from the burning glare of her glow.

It was something I didn't expect to see, this Moon pushing through the clouds during an intense thunderstorm. But the glow of this half-hidden orb made me think of an uplifting aura of hope. It made me think of the comforting grip of guidance. It reminded me of something spiritual; something mystical; something divine. In spite of the chaos of the storm around me, with forces pushing against me on my journey, the one thing I had chosen to be my guide home, no matter how jokingly I had said it...this one thing seemed to be saying, "Hey, I'm here, being what you asked me to be."

I need guidance from time to time. I need a glimmer of hope every now and then. An experience of a spiritual, magical, and divine nature is something to fully enjoy when it happens. These occurrences aren't rare. They happen all the time, usually when you don't expect it; always when you're deeply distracted by the chaos around you; sometimes when you're asking for it.

I said I needed guidance every now and then. I believe we all do. I'm not a very good follower, but I'm an even worse source of guidance. Flattering as it may be, it amazes me when I'm asked for advice. When you've gone through things that you're being asked advice about, you can take from those experiences, but it surely doesn't mean that you'll have expert advice. But giving from what you do know means a lot, even if your guidance is not given based upon actual experience, but from just giving from yourself, from what you know is right. I don't have all the answers for my friend's questions. I don't even have the answers to my own questions. But I only hope that my advice, misguided as it is, yet given from the heart, is taken to heart.

A few minutes and several miles after seeing the Moon through the storm clouds, the rain lessened, the thunder and lightning tapered off, and by the time I reached home, I could tell that I had gone through the storm; I had pulled ahead of it long enough to make it home, where it wasn't raining;  where the storm's light and sound display was lighting the more distant clouds and rolling through other hills, with the Moon hanging in a mostly clear sky to the East. The storm wasn't going away, though. It was still headed my way. I made it inside and waited for it to come. But this time, I knew what was coming. I had experienced it. So when the rain started hitting the windows and the thunder started rolling, I knew what to expect. When the lightning started flashing, even striking so close, close enough to make my lights flicker and a loud crack happen right outside my bedroom window, I wasn't surprised. But when the storm had passed as quickly as it had moved in, I went outside to see that the breaker to my yard light had tripped, leaving my yard in darkness. That's when I saw that the stars were brighter; more obvious. The Moon was peeking through a tree in my yard, obscured, but visible. And there, just above Cassiopeia, was the fuzzy band of the Milky Way.

And I was happy.

Misguidedly happy.