Evan Williams's Blog

I lost a friend today. More than a friend actually, someone I had resonated with for more than thirty years—a blindingly bright personality in a world of too often beige individuals. Full of smiles, even to the end of a long health battle. Setting a standard so high, who could match it? Too soon gone. Altogether missed.

     Stopping in my tracks, lifting my head to a perfect sky, I spoke aloud to the spirit most certainly zooming back to the Creative Source. “Fly swiftly,” I said, “unimpeded. Enjoy the peace you so deserve. We are all better for having known you, and we will be joining you soon.”

     No white dove flew by. No miraculous sign was forthcoming. I didn’t need any. Assured of the outcome, I wiped choking tears from my eyes, joyful for my departed friend, sad for the pain already gripping survivors.

Today the planning came to an end. I took significant action to propel my life forward by constructing a list of all my old grudges and hot buttons. How easy it would be to tell myself I had long forgiven everyone and everything I typed, quickly filling my computer screen. However, I know the untruth in such an assertion. So many old hurts I have kept alive, referring to them often, able to dial them up quite clearly from my memory banks. Over them? Not hardly!

     The tally of my list is unimportant. Let’s just say that I reduced my font size to eight, to allow for more entries. And perhaps there could have been more than one column. The page contained everything from poverty, to pain, to people who have caused me difficulty and anguish. There were names of former girlfriends, supposed friends and overtly unfriendly folks displayed on my monitor. Corporations, organizations, political figures, world conditions and injustices took up plenty of room. Chronologically, the offenders began when I was in elementary school, and led up to the present. Intentionally, no one saw my list, nor did I save it to a computer file. I simply printed it out immediately for imminent destruction.

     Clutching the paper tightly in one hand, some dried sage leaves and a lighter in the other, I walked out into the rain and wind. Stopping in the old equipment shed I found a discarded, rusty, cast iron pan. Upon this altar I would offer my sacrifice.

     Placing the skillet on the ground I laid my list of troubles within it, spreading the gray, sage leaves atop the paper. Sitting alongside, I aimed the lighter. Its bright red body seemed appropriate as I thought of all the furious rage I had harbored for almost fifty years. Some of the names could still cause me to see red if I allowed my thoughts to dwell upon what I considered un-atoned infractions.

     The first flaming tongue from the lighter caught the wind and blew back toward my thumb, leaving its mark. Perhaps this scorching reminder was a final taste of the heap of pain, which I had perpetuated, but now sought to release. My heart needed to be freed of the dense darkness. Hate, anger and vengefulness had to be vacated to make room for unconditional love. My mind had to cease playing those ratty old videos of unpleasant experiences, which led to judgment and then condemnation of fellow human beings. My consciousness could not soar in the present moment while tethered to ugliness from the past.

     The humidity and the breeze failed to cooperate with my expectations of a speedy incineration. Many times my reddened thumb rolled the knurled wheel of the lighter, hoping for a spontaneous fire. I found the intense effort ironic. The saturated memories would not leave this world quickly. I watched tiny, orange feathers slowly gnaw at the list. Names turned dark brown then became obscured by black as the tenuous flame crept across the page. The sage, often used for its cleansing qualities, caught fire, and the combined smokes rose to my face, burning my eyes and nostrils. 

     Anxious for purification, I did not turn away, determined to face my old problems fully. More than simply forgiving those on the list, I wanted to go forward as if former conflicts never occurred. The transformation of paper, from white to black, brought liberating satisfaction, as I mentally let go of the names, the slights and the ego bruisings. Though only a ritual, the undeniable impact was felt in the form of hope—hope at succeeding on this pivotal quest.

     With great delight I stirred the final nest of ashes with my index finger. Certain that all record had been obliterated I released the remnants to be spread by the wind.

In three hours I will depart for Charlotte to begin a new phase of my life. After more than thirty years of pursuing a college degree, I am commencing on a new one–an MFA in creative writing from Queens University of Charlotte. I confess, the prospect is daunting, but I am compelled to move forward with my writing passion.

Over the next few days, dozens of strangers, whom I hope to soon call friends, will be reading my work, offering public critique. Hopefully the big city folks will take a shine to the mountain boy and his simple, hillbilly tales. Time will soon tell.

Keep me in your thoughts.. Wish me well, for I can’t avoid feeling like John Boy Walton, leaving Walton’s Mountain to hone his writing craft. I believe it was Charlottesville where he went to college, from the television series. Kind of ironic, now that I think about it.

Here goes!

Evan

The Patience of the Apple Grower 

While trees are being cut by the millions for lumber and paper products, he is planting trees, acres of trees. With careful consideration he selects what he hopes will be the most profitable varieties, the most thriving type of rootstock, to anchor the slender whips, which will one day become producing apple trees.

     One day is actually three to five years before his new trees will bear fruit significant enough to harvest. Imagine the patience required to pay for trees, prepare the planting area, dig the holes, set the trees, protect them from rodents and insects, prune and fertilize, then spray them dozens of times before ever picking the first apple? That level of delayed gratification is a scarce commodity in an I-want-it-right-now society. But the apple grower possesses it in large measure. He’s a planner, a visionary, an eternal optimist who realizes that the initial investment will pay off huge dividends as a well cared for tree bears delicious fruit for decades.

     How many people, all over the nation, will benefit from the acumen of the apple grower? How many caramel apples and homemade pies will thrill taste buds, thanks to his diligence and commitment? And the same can be asked regarding the bountiful harvest from all the fruit and nut growers, and every farmer throughout our nation.

     In an age when fewer and fewer Americans live on a farm, it behooves us to be thankful for the men and women who choose a demanding lifestyle that feeds the rest of us. We are the fortunate recipients of the apple grower’s patience.

Copyright© 2013 by Evan Williams

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAUGHTER 

The forsythia, in full, yellow bloom, lined the highway as you traveled from the hospital nursery to your new home. And though you have heard the story before, it bears re-telling. This March is colder, and the forsythia aren’t yet awake to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of your birth, but we, your family do, along with hundreds and hundreds of folks whom you have befriended.

If success is measured in friends, then you are the most successful person around. Widely known, and highly regarded, your list of friends seems innumerable. And though your company is in great demand, thankfully, you manage to make time for your family as well.

If success is measured in kindness, you are indeed wealthy. The world benefits from your ever-present smile, your heartfelt concern, and your desire to help others. And the number of beneficiaries will swell as you begin a career dedicated to improving the lives of children and their parents.

If success is measured in generosity, you are a queen. Sharing whatever you have with whoever is in need is a beautiful facet of your nature. Giving to your own hurt, your compassion and empathy are boundless.

If success is measured in love, then you are a sublime example for all humanity. Not only do you express and give love freely, it returns to you in the admiration and adoration of your family, peers, friends, and the wonderful man who has chosen you above all others. You receive so much love because you are love. The light shines from within you, undeniably, and everyone is compelled to reciprocate the love you radiate.

Thirty years ago today, a twenty-two-year-old, first-time father couldn’t envision his own life at age thirty. He certainly couldn’t begin to comprehend what a marvel the tiny person in his arms would become. And your exploits will continue to multiply.

So, happy birthday, as we celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the arrival of you—the one who makes this world a happier place for us all!

Copyright© 2013 by Evan Williams

With the help of two sons, four holes appeared in a vacant patch on Orchard Road. Thick fescue skimmed off the surface went into a sod pile, followed by another spot strictly for precious topsoil, rocks and foreign objects picked out and pitched. Then the digging demanded more effort as sticky, wet, red clay constituted the majority of the matrix to be removed. This third heap would be the largest, with two feet being the required depth for the holes, destined to receive new apple trees, ordered and on the way.

     Shovels became chisels, attacking the hard-packed earth, more like brick than soil. Each inch gained, hard-fought. The tape measure frequently employed in hopes of having achieved completion, only to be disappointingly tossed aside as tired hands grasped shovels once more, mining out the last few stubborn inches.

     Bright orange piles mounded up, as muscles objected. Clay, annoyingly affixed to metal spades, could only be removed with gloved hands, and grudgingly at that. The excitement from the completion of the first hole waned with the realization of three more needed. Conversation gave way to silent determination. And on they dug, helping a father, whose dreams exceeded his physical ability to bring about their fruition.

     Still he participated, even kept pace with them, though he dropped to the ground on occasion, catching his breath, taking pressure off his ailing back. Experience his advantage, with thousands of hours logged on this hand tool, and so many others. His strength and bulk enabled him to push the blade farther into the unrelenting soil than the lighter frames of the two young men.

     His mold not theirs. And though their divergent destinies still ached his heart a bit, he had long since made peace with the ebb and flow of life, supercharged with change.

Copyright© 2013 by Evan Williams

Opinions get us into trouble. We all tend to have them, but every opinion can’t be perfectly valid, or of merit, or of practical application. So, it’s just best to let go of them, and focus on the essential elements of the human paradigm. And what is essential? What is the most basic acknowledgement from us? Love of God, and love of fellow-man…    

We are all in this together. There is no you, I, or they. There is only us!

SPENT

 Twelve used candles on a homemade birthday cake,

Mismatched stems aflame, carefully saved from past attempts at celebration,

Former representatives of someone else’s years, now signifying hers.

Twelve revolutions ’round the sun, growing up in a home so poor,

Birthday candles become precious commodities,

Quickly extinguished and saved for little sister’s cake in the spring.

Kept in the drawer with empty bread bags and twist ties,

Complimentary matches and ketchup packets,

Small, grimy white paper squares of salt and pepper.

The spice drawer, they jokingly call it, tossing humor at despair,

A dry bone to a starving dog.

Twelve orange fires dance above a field of white icing,

But only one wish they offer.

A singular opportunity not taken lightly.

Closing her eyes, concentrating all the luck available on this special day,

The caged air of a two-room apartment escapes pursed lips.

Twelve plumes of smoke rise with the wish, launched into the universe.

A one-word wish—hope,

Because she has none, not a speck.

Her youthful supply, completely spent, replaced by painful experience.

She won’t waste this wish on designer clothes, a cell phone, or concert tickets,

Earnestly asking an unseen dream maker for what she must have, to go on living.

Twelve year-old eyes can only see upcoming misery, more of the same.

Single mom, the projects, hungry children—the canvas of her world.

Issued a palette of drab colors to paint her signature rendition of the frustrating scene.

Gunshots in the dark, boys following her home from school, police car sirens.

So much of the bad that it spreads everywhere, slips under their door, touches everyone. Never enough good to go around, never managing to stay, for even a day.

Twelve of those 365-bad-day cycles, turning excruciatingly slowly when hope is lost.

Not daring to dream, permanently earthbound by the weight of abundant suffering.

A future written in the graffiti of the crumbling walls that imprison her.

While the history teacher ignorantly lectures about the land of the free, equality for all,

Lead-based paint chips off the rotting windowsills of public housing.

Copyright © 2013 by Evan Williams

 As a self-confessed lover of words, so many of them strike one fancy or another of mine. Often it’s no more than the way they trip off the tongue, ring in the ear. Sometimes it goes much deeper, to a feeling, a place within that stirs contentment, safety or indescribable joy. Just a few simple letters can be arranged to powerfully transport me to a different time, a favorite locale or a treasured memory. For all those reasons my love for words remains preeminent. Below, are ten of my favorite:

 kaleidoscope

  serendipitous

  grandiloquent

  onomatopoeia

  Shangri-la

  Appalachian

  enraptured

 i nfinity

  peace

  epiphany

      Any other word fans out there, feel free to share some of your favorites. With so many from which to choose, the possibilities abound!

 Copyright © 2013 by Evan Williams

THE  SECOND  FACE

Everyone maintains a second face,

From kings to peasants.

Anyone with the ability to dream and desire,

However elementary those lusts may be.

The only requirement is the most basic synaptic connections.

Yet, in our ignorance,

We imagine that no one suspects the existence of our second face.

Our little secret, shared by everyone.

We are rarely at our best when we are alone with our selves.

At those moments, our second face gains supremacy.

That second face, that real face, which we imagine that we hide,

Is the snapshot of our true selves.

The quintessential us.

Devoid of courtesy, manners, and reigned in animalistic needs.

Exploitation. Gratification. Without complication.

Guttural language. Primal urges. Criminal impulses. Unleashed restraint.

The internal language of the second face could earn us the death penalty.

That second face, longing to be free to do a world of its pleasing.

No reprisals. No penalties. No fees.

Rampant indulgence to the maximum degree.

Yet it is terrified of ostracism.

Wants to be cloaked by the status quo.

Still maintain a public image,

Go where it chooses to go.

Lost in the flow.

Hide who we are—a behavior learned from birth.

Afraid to be ourselves.

Thinking that we have no real worth.

People of the second face,

Jockeying for position in the human race.

Never learning, none of us accepting,

That we are all exactly who we are supposed to be.

Copyright © 2013 by Evan Williams