One morning last week, I moved on land, by foot. It was hot for November and I molted like a lizard, dropping a vest, long-sleeved tee, mittens, and a hat until I was running one layer from naked in shorts and a tank. The air felt good. I’m not one to umpire a lingering summer, it can stay on base as long as it likes.

I traveled the Atlantic Beach causeway, caught the circle, and headed back for the Fort Macon trail. It was a nice, easy ten. I was in the mood to soak up the scenery and finish strong. This is my story these days, slow and steady to the end.

When I made the turn, I paused for a moment to admire the Christmas tree and wonder why the flags were at half-mast. They hung limp like Morning Glories without daybreak or enthusiasm. There is almost always wind here and its absence along with the flat liner flags of America, North Carolina, and Atlantic Beach created a somber reverence. I contracted the vibe and sent up prayers of light and love to the universe. I didn’t know why the flags had been lowered, but I did know that somewhere, someone was personally impacted.

Half-mast, no wind seems about right these days. I’m a glass half full kind of gal, but damn, how long can you be at half a tank before you stop for gas? How long before your flag just gets tired of it all and hangs its head, depressed like. 

It’s easy of late to succumb to the negativity of life. Headlining with difficult people, destructive banter in the media, and the virus that won’t go away, there’s the temptation to create a long list of yuck, self-medicated by plunging inward into a dimly lit emotional coma. Yet, there in front of that sad flagpole, stood a hulk-size Christmas tree, not halved in any way, full and sparkling in the sunshine.

Before I saw the flags, I’d been stomping out some writing in my head. That’s what we word nerds do. We multi-task over gerunds and verbs while we interact with the world. Math people count crap, so don’t get self-righteous.

The story I had been rolling through the reel-to-reel projector of my mind implicated a three-peat occurrence involving the word intact over the course of four days.

I grew up on a farm and am wise to the fixing of baby pigs, gelding of horses, and castration of bulls. In all my years around livestock, cattle sales, farmers, and veterinary offices, I’ve never heard the word intact used in such context. 

Here’s my late in life introduction sequence: (1) My friend posted a photo of her foster cat, intact. (2) Another friend told a story about her dog, Clyde, still intact, but that was going to change at his upcoming prom date with the vet. (3) My writer buddy got word from an editor that her fabulous novel was in a word, intact. While I could take the high road and say that feline, Clyde, and manuscript were all “whole,” I’d rather take the dusty, crush and run path and deliberate on the common denominator. These three have balls. 

As I run, these ideas orbit around one another and I wonder about the relationship between flags, trees, and metaphorical testicles. It has certainly been a year filled with surprise and learning, so I’m not rattled by the cyclone of concepts.

As I enter the trail at Fort Macon, the morning call sounds from the Coast Guard Station. Nothing like a bugle to snap you to attention. The morning tune, called Reveille, “Le Reveil” in French, translates to wake up. It was so clear and crisp, so authentic with just the wind created by the bugler, lips against brass. It’s as intact as music gets, no keys, but range in accordance to the talent and disposition of the player. The raw echo of the tune lifted 2020 a bit for me. It stirred an awakening. It’s been cumulative, this place where I’ve landed since last spring, but I’m discovering that the ticket isn’t one way; it’s round trip.

2020 has left flags tattered and half-mast. I feel respect for the reflection, knowing they can still be raised. 

The wind has had the breath knocked out of it, but it will bluster again. Such is the way with life and wind. Given the time and season, it finds the way back.

I feel renewed by the hope of a sparkling tree, a symbol for things I believe in. Reveille is playing, slow and steady. I am complete, as intact as I will ever be, strong and grateful.