Unrecorded Magic

There is an unexplainable romanticism that comes from being present. Looking. Observing. Careful reflection reveals that each thing we touch has come as a product of creation. As I write, I'm am looking down on the Midwest from 23,000 ft. I got goose bumps at the lines of powerful airplanes delivering people on a journey. Even these workhorses of the sky were showing a bit of personality with their brightly colored tail fins. A tear formed as I saw the shadow of our plane, lifting off. I had forgotten how much courage and perseverance it took to say YES. That can be built. That can happen.  And then, climbing out of Chicago I took pause to wonder what is being built in those factories. I observed the backyards of people I do not know. Climbing higher, my focus shifts to traffic patterns. Then railway layout. City planning. Snow removal. Public spaces. Farms, and finally the differential freezing patterns of lakes and rivers.

At some point, decisions were made that influenced each of these occurrences.  We forget this because each of these sights are common place. We interact with them in a very individualistic manner. Many times I have overlooked light industrial as an eyesore that we no longer relevant. Neighborhoods as projections of who might live there instead of who is loving there.

I paused this morning, trying to capture the word to describe my goose bumps. My tear. The only thing I could find was romantic. I am drawn to our capacity to create. To design. Our tendencies to leave our unique mark on the world. This was highlighted by what I think was a putting green created on a boulevard.

I imagine it like this: a neighborhood in transition. New families entering while some of the original home owners remained.  Today, a young daughter was sent out to pick up sticks in the neighborhood. This was mostly because her mother needed just a few minutes to think. A time when her brain wash trying to balance making sure that the children had educational opportunities. Time to be sure the housework got done, the presentation for work was ready, the errands we run for her house and grandmas. Not to mention keeping track of all of her digital communications.  The "go collect fallen sticks" command had an undetermined length, was outdoors and was slightly of service to her neighbors. With slight adjustment, it would also be social media gold. Look at my beautiful daughter, helping all the neighbors after this terrible storm.  Translation: my daughter was getting on my nerves so I sent her outside and in frustration assigned her to do a meaningless chore. You see, a more rigid task would need to be monitored. Arguments would be had about what the real definition of "pick up all the toys in the backyard" really meant. This. This was easy. This was a break.

The daughter bundled up and headed out into the yard. At first, the girl was upset. She would have much rather watch TV than head outside. I mean, there weren't even other kids about. She grabbed the first stick she saw. Just lifting the stick, feeling a bit of the heft inspired an immediate shout of "on guard" as she jumped into sword fighting position. After a short battle with an imaginary opponent, she picks up another stick. And another. She has quite a collection when she notices a rock on the ground. Not just any rock, but THE one and only just perfect for my collection rock. It was at this point that the neighbor interrupted.

Roger was asking about the rock, but the young girl didn’t even want to show it.  It had a line of quartz running through it. It was special.  As he came over, he brought a wheelbarrow from his garage. He walked over and took the top stick from the pile and challenged the girl to a dual. She tossed the remaining sticks into the wheelbarrow with a clang. The following battle was epic.  They battled tirelessly. At stake was the new found treasure, the rock.  

Alice finally scored a glancing blow to Rogers side. Once victory was seized, she asked why he wanted the sticks that she had unceremoniously dumped. He explained that there used to be a forest at the back of his property. He would collect sticks for his fireplace. One year he noticed that in spring, a few young animal families would set up temporary homes there. He was going to put the sticks out just in case any animals needed them.

The sticks were dumped.  Leaves fluffed underneath them, just in case. As they wheeled the now empty tools back into the garage, she noticed a bag. When she asked about it, he explained that they were golf clubs. He used to play all of the time, but cannot walk the last by distances anymore. He shrugged it off and sent her home.

When she got home, her mom had completely lost track of how much time had passed. She was uncharacteristically daydreaming. When she inquired about how the project went, she was greeted with a very characteristic preteen shrug. How maddening.  It wasn't for another hour that mom noticed that the TV hadn't been flipped on. In fact, it seemed that her daughter had come in the front door and proceeded straight out the back one.

The garage door was open. Tools strewn everywhere. Her daughter?  She had mowed and dug a hole in the boulevard. To what end? What on earth was going on here? Just as she opened her mouth to say something, Alice looked up. Not at her mother, but at the neighbor’s house. Did she know them? What was this project all about?

She could have never imagined what happened next. Her daughter noticed an old man peeking out the widow and waved at him, instructing him to come outside. When he did, you could feel his energy, his smile radiating through the neighborhood.  "What did you build here?" He asked. Instead of the typical surly preteen angst, Roger was greeted with a glowing almost boastful response. "A putting green" she answered "for you to keep practicing your game."

And with that, two worlds connected. There the green sits. Visible from takeoff at Chicago's O'Hare airport. Or it could have been a gopher hole. What do I know from 10,000 feet and climbing?