More of Nothing

When I have some downtime, which is 90% of the time, I take a walk and burn a cigar. Today I chose the gardens again because there is no better place and the only reason I ever walk anywhere else is to provide some variety. Last night a violent storm visited St. Cloud and on my walk I observed its aftermath which amounted only to a few scattered fallen branches, one of which could have killed a man if he had been drunk enough to stand beneath it during the tempest.

I sat on a swinging bench and watched the ducks chase after scraps of bread thrown by a mentally challenged girl and her astoundingly beautiful caretaker. I often see mentally challenged people at the gardens, mostly folks with Down syndrome. Their caretakers bring them to the gardens because they, like myself, have realized that it is the perfect place to kill some time, although they have not yet realized that a cigar goes well with the scenery.

Feeling that the handicapped probably receive more curious or even disapproving looks than friendly ones, I try to smile at them to remind them that they are a part of the human race. However, I can only maintain a smile for a maximum of two seconds, being that it comes so unnaturally to me, so I wait to make eye contact before I send my happy face to them, but they seem to dislike eye contact as much as I do and they glance only for a split second, seeing only my unsmiling, unwelcoming face before they again look away, nullifying my opportunity to smile at them, which leaves me feeling like a dick. I really need to work on my affability.

Sitting on the swing, ducks began to gather around me and I felt like St. Francis or perhaps the Beastmaster. I was careful to remain perfectly still, fearing that if I moved I would frighten my small winged minions. I became confident that I was all but invisible to them when one nearly waddled right over my feet. I then looked down and noticed a spider on my belt. Not content with letting it be and seeing where it would end up, I was forced to break my statue impression and flick it off of me. Simultaneously, the caretaker and her caretakee began throwing unwanted morsels of their meal to the ducks and they raced to their free meal like bums to a soup kitchen. You would think they were starving to death.

A few times, large fish thrashed at the surface of the great Mississippi in which the ducks had been bathing. I thought how terrified my sister would have been if she had been in those waters at the moment, being that she is so fishophobic. It’s a real word.

Soon, last night’s storm began to make a comeback. Thunder rolled in the distance and people began to pack their belongings. The impervious ducks remained indifferent. I made my way to my car in case I had to roll up the windows. By the time I got there a good third of my cigar remained. I took a seat at a nearby picnic table. With nothing to do, I began to think.

My thinking resulted in the posing of a question about a question; What is the most important question in the world? I decided that it was, “Where do we go when we die?” All other questions relate to our immediate life. It is tantamount to weighing the finite against the infinite. Although “What should I do with my life?” is an important question, it does not supersede the previous one. “Where do we go when we die” encompasses all, at least mostly. It has the power to direct the action that follows “What should I do with my life”.

There are other important questions. Maybe there isn’t an ultimate question, maybe there are several questions of equal importance all related to each other, but “What happens after we die” is up there. And if our answer is that we fade into nothingness, we best be damn sure of it, because if there is even the slightest threat of divine justice, the consequences of a belief to the contrary may be unfathomably severe. Don’t ask me how it works. I’m great at posing questions, not so much answering them.

I didn’t have long to contemplate these things. Being the important person that I am, the rain had been waiting for me, and when I finished my cigar it loosed itself upon the land and I fled to my cozy dry home.

Here, now, at three in the afternoon, it is dark outside and a new storm is under way, so far nearly rivaling the violence of the first. The wind may be less severe but there seems to be even more rain now than there was the previous night.

It is difficult to imagine, impossible to physically see, but I know that beyond the dark and wicked storm clouds, there is a clear, bright, heavenly realm, sun reflecting off the clouds, an entirely different world just beyond my sight.