a placeless world

The first time I realized that thought could transcend time, I was hovering over my grandmother's swimming pool on a hot July day.

I was seven, suspended mid-jump over the cold water, and certain I had changed my mind about the whole ordeal. The intervening years have clouded my recollection of how the water felt when I ultimately broke the pool's surface, but I can still remember, vividly, the realization that this was the first time in life I was conscious of having done something I couldn't take back.

I often return to that moment. And I try to remind myself that, in those few split seconds, I learned so much about the mind's wonderful capacity for contemplative thought in small increments of time.

I also learned that there are consequences to every one of our actions. Some come quickly. Some take more time. But in between, there are always those moments above the pool.

Today I am hovering over the pool.

The tickets came in two FedEx envelopes. Paper proof that I was, indeed, heading to the Middle East. The first set will take me to Istanbul. The second to Kuwait. From there, I cross the border into Iraq and head north.

I had to ask my employer to raise the limit on my credit card so that I could buy the tickets and everything else I would need for this trip. The boss complied. And since the money has now been spent, I am obligated to follow through.

I am not having second thoughts. But I am aware that there is a long time — eight weeks — between now and the time I depart. A long time to be hovering over the pool.

In the meantime, there are flak vests to buy, maps to study, military units to contact. Away from work there are carrots to pull, a basement to finish, a lawn to mow.

And a woman to love.

On most occassions, when I take to the air, it is only I who must wait above the pool for splashdown. But this is not most occassions. My wife is deeply upset about my decision. She is scared and sad and lonely.

She cried, the other night, when I played my guitar for her.

"Let it Be," I played as she sobbed.

"Who will sing to me when you are gone?" she asked.

She asks me many questions these days. About what she should do if there is a leak in the kitchen faucet. About where she should take her car if it was to break down. These questions are easy to answer. In any situation in which she might need help, she is to call my friend Matt, who has volunteered to do "the man jobs" while I am gone.

But there are other questions, ones that are not so easy to answer. About wills. About last wishes. About how she will make the house payment if I am killed. About where she should live. About what she should do.

What can I say? That my employer has purchased a good insurance policy? That she will be taken care of? These are not the answers she wants.

We are hovering above the pool, waiting to hit the water, and there are no answers to her questions. Just a moment of time in which to contemplate the consequences of making decisions I cannot take back.