Gregory A. Kompes

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  • A Circle

    by Gregory A. Kompes

    [Photo Credit: Petroglyph Circle by Gregory A. Kompes]

    When he entered the hiking path, the sun glowed, warm and pleasant and inviting. The first comfortable day of spring. The seasons moved forward, ever forward. A reprieve from winter: so cold and snowing and windy this past season. Today’s sunshine: a promise of summer and warmth and hope.

    As he walked, stones crunching in a familiar way beneath his boots, he grew warm and took a moment near the little bend with the old, dead tree, to stop and remove his jacket. He’d dressed in layers, his brain still geared toward the cold weather. Off came the jacket, tucked now into his backpack. A bit further along the path, after a sip of water, off came the thin, well-worn, Merino wool sweater—one of his favorites. It joined the jacket in the pack. Another half mile and he rolled up his sleeves.

    Around him, birds flitted in the trees, not yet budding for spring. Things he couldn’t see scurried among the dead leaves and undergrowth, trampled nearly flat from the many feet of winter snow they’d endured.

    A crack, like thunder startled him. He looked toward the sky. There’d been no storm warnings, no weather alerts. The sky now, black as night, like an eclipse. The birds and creatures silenced.

    Cold air berated him without warning. As he attempted to retrieve his sweater, his jacket, the gale-force wind ripped his pack from his hands and hurtled it into the trees.

    The air now frigid, invaded him, froze him. He turned his back to the wind, headed toward the pack, now hung up on a low branch. As he ran toward it, he unrolled his sleeves, but his fingers wouldn’t work well enough to button the cuffs.

    He reached for the backpack, as another thunderous crack sounded through the forest.

    The wind stopped, as if commanded.

    The clouds dissipated as quickly as they’d come. The sun emerged and cast dappled shadows before him. He reached for his pack and finally, with the splitting of a small branch, retrieved it. Yet, he no longer required the sweater or the jacket. When he reached for his water bottle it was gone. After a brief, uneventful search, he swallowed hard. The length of path would be about the same either direction. He knew this place, although he’d never experienced anything like the blackout storm before. Go forward or go back?

    Once more, the birds chirped and called.

    Forward, of course. The only way to go: forward.

  • Which Wolf Will Win?

    by Gregory A. Kompes

    Photo by Milo Weiler on Unsplash

    The older man asked me, “Which wolf will win?”

    What the hell was he talking about? No idea. None.

    The conversation escalated around us. Everyone talking and talking and talking. Arguing. Debating: Politics. Current events. Resistance and protest and fear. Uncertainly at the core of everything. No one knew what was really happening. So much had occurred and changed and so much threatened all the entire nation had come to know.

    That phrase echoed within: “Which wolf will win?” What could it mean? The leader? The people?

    The debate raged. Two women looked like they might come to blows. A young man spoke up about James Baldwin and the idea of framing the fight in love. No one responded to him, but the man who’d brought up the wolf smiled and nodded his head.

    Again the phrase echoed: “Which wolf will win?”

    One woman in the room or the other, who seemed very close to blows. Were they the wolves?

    The group had begun to divide, some on the side of one woman, some on the side of the other. They stepped toward one…or the other. The division and taking of positions seemed unconscious.

    Sidling up to the older man, who breached the divide, the words slipped out in a whisper: “What wolf?”

    Without hesitation, yet with a hint of smile, he said, “There are two wolves arguing in my head. One good, one evil. The good one kind and generous and thoughtful, the other jealous and greedy and angry.”

    “Like an angel and a devil?” the young man asked.

    The others in the little group quieted. The man rarely spoke, but when he did people listened.

    “Perhaps. Although the wolves existed before the concept of devils or angels,” he said. “We all have two wolves fighting within us.”

    That idea hung in the air between the group, which had unconsciously stepped in closer to listen to the man. In the listening, they’d once more come together as a single group, united in their desire for the story. For the wisdom.

    “Which will win,” asked the young man, fully engaged in the moment.

    The man took us in, each of us, one at a thoughtful time. He made eye contact with each one of us. He offered that kind smile and finally he said, “The one you feed wins.”

    One of the angry women turned abruptly and walked away. The other, after a long beat walked away, too, not after the first, but toward the snack table.

    The hostess came up to the remaining group, all smiles, a crisp white wine in her glass, and asked, “What are we talking about here?”

    Everyone turned toward the older man, who only smiled back toward her.

    The young man tilted a beer bottle high in the air, swallowed the contents, lowered the bottle, and said, “I think I’ll go find some food for the good wolf.” He walked away, not toward the food or the bar, but toward another group of people on the opposite side of the room.

    The older man nodded and ate a cherry tomato off his paper plate.

  • Ignoble Subjects

    by Gregory A. Kompes

    The news was unavoidable. Finias Monk had certainly tried to avoid the political machinations of the moment. Avoided logging into the news portal. Stopped reading the daily news. Stopped listening to NPR during his daily commute. He’d stopped going out to dinner: alone or with friends. Often, there were people talking about current events near him, taking sides. Angry or elated, it mattered not. And, he avoided meals and other outings with friends, because how could you not gather and eventually speak of the current events and news and downfall of society. For both sides seemed to believe that society had or was failing.

    While sitting on his deck, watching a flock of geese fly over—he didn’t know if these were a migratory flock, headed to safer conditions or if they were from the local flocks who’d setup residence in the rich waters and landscape.

    As he watched, he considered the idea of movement. Should he leave? Could he leave? How did one navigate that? Should one navigate that. The birds squawking overhead, for now another large group was passing in a nearly perfect V-formation, needed no papers. They held no possessions. They lived in the moment. Found what food and water and daily needs and comforts they required. Without pretext. Without a worry for news or politics or leaders or borders. They simply moved freely, unless a predator or hunter became enthralled. Even if one did, it was simply part of the culture to lose a companion and keep moving on.

    Did geese morn losses?

    That was a question he’d never thought of or considered before.

    Finias knew dogs and cats mourned and grieved. He seemed to remember reading a story about birds having long memories. He’d watched a documentary where elephants suffered grief nearly like humans, perhaps greater—their numbers so much smaller, their losses so much more impactful.

    Most humans seemed to grieve, too. That seemed to be what Finias was up against these days. The news stories of changes and atrocities and dismantlings and deportations and the erasing of history and so many other overwhelming events, so many once basic concepts of truth and justice being torn asunder were so upsetting because they brought him a sense of loss, of grief.

    But now, the geese were gone. Their honks grown distant. And in the returning calm and silence, Finias realized that even without the constant input of news sources and conversations, even while sitting in the calm afternoon sunshine, watching the forsythia and cherries in bloom, waiting for the next flock of geese in transit, that his own grief-stricken brain wouldn’t allow him to avoid the changing world around him.

    Spring was a time of rebirth…yet, the daffodils didn’t seem as bright this season.

Gregory A. Kompes

Author ~ Teacher ~ Coach ~ Quilter