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ONE MORNING, SEVERAL YEARS AGO, when I was about forty-five, I looked up into the sky and saw a meteor shrouded in a ball of orange fire. It arced across the atmosphere, trailing a plume of grey-white smoke. I heard it wailing in the distance; it made a lonely, hollow sound. And then I saw the meteor was falling toward Earth. The howl grew louder, until it became a shriek. The sound was deafening and horrendous shriek, as if the meteor itself was being burned alive. And it terrified me. It froze me in one place. And so, as I stood there in my back yard, my neck craned back, my mouth agape, my bathrobe hanging slightly open, it began to dawn on me that this screaming, burning meteor was bound for my small gray home in Montrose. For me!
I turned away. I took a step. I tried to yell. But, before my foot had hit the ground, before the word—whatever it was—had left my mouth, the meteor crashed into the ground behind me. Its shockwave lifted me into the air. I floated there above my back yard, weightless for a moment. My vision filled with jags of red and yellow. And then, just as quickly as the meteor had drawn me up, it hurled me down again.
When I hit the dirt, my breath shot out and made a rasp and hiss. I thought I’d broken something. Perhaps many things. My ribs. My wrists. My spine. I lay there gasping, spitting out the grass and dirt.
And then, as I raised myself onto my elbows, I caught my first sight the meteor. My first true sight, now that it had landed and the fire had gone out. The rock had punched a hole clean through the canopy of one of my lemon trees and crushed my birdbath into smithereens, leaving just a ring of lime-white dust. It had made a shallow crater. And, in the middle of it all, the meteor.
The meteor.
The meteor was eight feet tall and egg-shaped. It was standing on one end. Its surface was perfectly smooth and pearly white. Resting there, it had an air of—how should I put it?—of permanence, of place. And, as I stared at it, I thought I should be scared. Paralyzed even. My heart should have been racing. My hands should have been trembling. After all, an enormous meteor, still smoking, had smashed into the Earth and nearly crushed me.
But I no longer felt frightened. Not in the least. Instead, I felt exhilarated. Relieved I was alive, yes, but more than simply that. I felt thankful. I felt really, truly thankful that the meteor had fallen out of the sky and into my back yard, destroying my birdbath and upsetting my peace. Because, I thought, this drowsy peace had gone on too long. Peace had fallen down around me like a cloak of ether. It was time for me to be upset after so long a slumber!
And also, to add to that feeling, there was an idea welling up inside me. One of my notions. One of my ideas. I could feel it taking shape inside my head. It came on as an urge and then a prick and then a prod. It was an itch and then a pressure and then I saw it as a burst of blinding light. And it was true! I had always wanted to take up sculpting! Since my college days! And maybe all my life!
Pulling myself to my feet, I thought back on all the times I’d meant to carve a sculpture. All the times that I’d found myself considering objects—candles, drift wood, bars of soap—and wondering what I could make of them. If anything at all. What would happen if I concentrated my attention on an object, a raw object, to the exclusion of all else? Would I be able to form something meaningful from it? If not a masterpiece, at least something worth preserving? Or would it only lead me to a dead end? Shavings on the floor and nothing left but me?
I couldn’t know. I couldn’t know for lack of trying. And that thought struck me. The knowledge that I’d tried absolutely nothing and so couldn’t know for lack of effort. It left me with a deep and abiding contempt for myself. Or, to put it slightly better, it revealed that such an emotion had always resided in me, dormant, just beneath the skin. I’d never really bothered. I’d never really committed to the task. Instead, I’d always viewed my inaction with a sort of post-modern detachment: Action itself was comical and doomed, I’d thought, as all things were comical and doomed. There was no use in trying. There was no use in sculpting. There was no use in anything at all. Or so I’d thought.
This realization about myself—what I’d been and what I’d done and what I’d thought—nearly made me sick. It drew my insignificance to a point. I felt little. Little beyond little. A fleck. A paramecium. A piece of dander.
I turned away. I took a step. I tried to yell. But, before my foot had hit the ground, before the word—whatever it was—had left my mouth, the meteor crashed into the ground behind me. Its shockwave lifted me into the air. I floated there above my back yard, weightless for a moment. My vision filled with jags of red and yellow. And then, just as quickly as the meteor had drawn me up, it hurled me down again.
When I hit the dirt, my breath shot out and made a rasp and hiss. I thought I’d broken something. Perhaps many things. My ribs. My wrists. My spine. I lay there gasping, spitting out the grass and dirt.
When I hit the dirt, my breath shot out and made a rasp and hiss. I thought I’d broken something. Perhaps many things. My ribs. My wrists. My spine. I lay there gasping, spitting out the grass and dirt.
And then, as I raised myself onto my elbows, I caught my first sight the meteor. My first true sight, now that it had landed and the fire had gone out. The rock had punched a hole clean through the canopy of one of my lemon trees and crushed my birdbath into smithereens, leaving just a ring of lime-white dust. It had made a shallow crater. And, in the middle of it all, the meteor.
The meteor.
The meteor was eight feet tall and egg-shaped. It was standing on one end. Its surface was perfectly smooth and pearly white. Resting there, it had an air of—how should I put it?—of permanence, of place. And, as I stared at it, I thought I should be scared. Paralyzed even. My heart should have been racing. My hands should have been trembling. After all, an enormous meteor, still smoking, had smashed into the Earth and nearly crushed me.
But I no longer felt frightened. Not in the least. Instead, I felt exhilarated. Relieved I was alive, yes, but more than simply that. I felt thankful. I felt really, truly thankful that the meteor had fallen out of the sky and into my back yard, destroying my birdbath and upsetting my peace. Because, I thought, this drowsy peace had gone on too long. Peace had fallen down around me like a cloak of ether. It was time for me to be upset after so long a slumber!
And also, to add to that feeling, there was an idea welling up inside me. One of my notions. One of my ideas. I could feel it taking shape inside my head. It came on as an urge and then a prick and then a prod. It was an itch and then a pressure and then I saw it as a burst of blinding light. And it was true! I had always wanted to take up sculpting! Since my college days! And maybe all my life!
Pulling myself to my feet, I thought back on all the times I’d meant to carve a sculpture. All the times that I’d found myself considering objects—candles, drift wood, bars of soap—and wondering what I could make of them. If anything at all. What would happen if I concentrated my attention on an object, a raw object, to the exclusion of all else? Would I be able to form something meaningful from it? If not a masterpiece, at least something worth preserving? Or would it only lead me to a dead end? Shavings on the floor and nothing left but me?
I couldn’t know. I couldn’t know for lack of trying. And that thought struck me. The knowledge that I’d tried absolutely nothing and so couldn’t know for lack of effort. It left me with a deep and abiding contempt for myself. Or, to put it slightly better, it revealed that such an emotion had always resided in me, dormant, just beneath the skin. I’d never really bothered. I’d never really committed to the task. Instead, I’d always viewed my inaction with a sort of post-modern detachment: Action itself was comical and doomed, I’d thought, as all things were comical and doomed. There was no use in trying. There was no use in sculpting. There was no use in anything at all. Or so I’d thought.
This realization about myself—what I’d been and what I’d done and what I’d thought—nearly made me sick. It drew my insignificance to a point. I felt little. Little beyond little. A fleck. A paramecium. A piece of dander.
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