“That our painful labors are unnecessary, and fruitless; that only in our easy, simple, spontaneous action are we strong.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
This past week my best friend came to stay with me in Iowa City. Like anyone expecting a guest, I churned my mind thinking up activities for us to do and places I’d like to show him. “I could take him to the Sutliff bridge,” I thought. I was making a list, considering his tastes, but also factoring in a desire to show off the landscape, seek out experiences that I felt seemed particularly Iowan. As I drove to pick him up at the airport, I rehashed the fully packed five-day schedule I’d composed for us, from the 6:20 a.m. Zazen mediations to the evening bowling at Colonial Lanes.
“I’ve always wanted see Sedona, I don’t know why it took me three years of living in Arizona to finally make the drive,” said my friend. This was last fall, when I was visiting him. The sublime red majesty of Cathedral Rock had demanded that we pullover and get out of car. It was that familiar recognition: Why do I always wait until the arrival of guests before I enjoy the worthwhile aspects of my environment?
I’d view his visit as an opportunity to take advantage if Iowa City, see the city with fresh eyes.
We drove straight from the airport to the cidery in Sutliff and then to the bridge. “Should I order another drink?” my friend asked. It was cool and the setting sun was reflecting on the clouds in an array of luminous fleshy tones worthy of a Moran landscape. “No,” I said. We had to get back to Iowa City for Szechuan food and then make it to the sauna at the Campus Recreation and Wellness Center before it closed. “Finish your beer,” I said “We’ve got to hurry.”
I underestimated how much work I’d have at the Little Village office this week, and my friend had plenty of work of his own, that he was doing remotely at the public library. We didn’t see each other until late the second night; exhausted, we heated up our leftovers from the night before. I was giving up on our list of activities. With the way things were shaping up, we wouldn’t get around to much of it. We went to bed too tired to set our alarms for morning meditation. “We’re still planning on going geode hunting right?” said my friend from the futon mattress. “Absolutely,” I said, “No matter what.”
On the day before my friend was to fly home, I sent him a text telling him this evening, we’d be geode rich. I’d only been geode hunting once before, but I knew this sort of thing was after my friend’s heart; it was after all an adventure after my own. A friend had taken me to a site on the Skunk River — we’d found a haul of geodes, and though I wasn’t totally positive where on the map we’d been, I was confident I could find it again. Nearly two hours into our journey though, with the Mississippi River coming into view, it became clear we were lost. When I saw the signs for Denmark, Iowa a half hour back, I should have turned there. It was nearly eight, it was growing dark. “I messed up,” I said. “It’s okay,” my friend said, “We’ll find it. Let’s turn around.”
We drove in serpentine roads along Geode State park and trudged through a tall meadow where the only light came from the fireflies, the stars, a yellow sliver of the moon. We bushwhacked through the woods in the dark; we were mostly lost, but we eventually made it to the banks of the Skunk River. We found one geode right away, and then a few more. We returned to the car sweaty with muddy shoes, we ate gas station elk jerky for dinner and we each found a tick crawling on our body. If only all disastrous campaigns felt so much like glory.
When we said goodbye at the airport, I knew his visit in no way resembled how I had envisioned it, but we were glad anyhow. The spontaneous and humble form that our our days assumed was something better. Isn’t it is easier to relax, let go of the reigns and accept whatever comes our way when we have a friend there to stand beside us? My friend didn’t fly across the country for a bowling alley or a museum or a state park, he came to be in the presence of a particular person and experience anything or nothing at all with them. Our failures and dull moments seem lighter when experienced with a friend, and the joys that bloom, though they can’t be predicted, are that much magnified.
