During June and July, I’ve been out standing in a field – a barley field.

The field is among the 67,000-acres that comprise the world’s largest agricultural complex – the Beltsville Agricultural Research Center or known more familiarly as BARC. The barley field is located approximately two miles from my home and was harvested at the beginning of July, giving me access to the middle of it – a wide-open spot providing a spacious field of vision. A quarter mile to the north and on my left is the heavily-traversed Powder Mill Road, and a quarter mile away on my right and to the south is the less-traversed Beaver Dam Road. From this spot in the middle of the field, I have been able to witness my beloved sunrises as well as the comings and goings of a few wild and wacky humans.

THE CRY

Between 5:40 and 5:50 every morning, including Saturday, an African American man wearing a navy blue security guard uniform pulls his car (this year it is a silver SUV, the last two years it has been a black sedan) off to the side of Powder Mill Road, steps out of the car and while walking from the front of the car to the back on the driver’s side, yells what sounds like, “Ella!” or “Rita!” or “Allah!” three to four times.  I cannot clearly make out his cry. He then gets back into his car and drives away. Every morning. Same time. Same cry. Did a loved one die in a car accident at that spot on Powder Mill Road? Is he praying? I don’t know, but it is a fascinating ritual.

THE HELMUT

Around the same time on Beaver Dam Road, a helmeted person (I can’t make out the race or the gender) zooms by on an electric bike. The first couple of times, we merely noticed each other. Now we look for each other, often simultaneously raising our arms to wave. She/he has never stopped to introduce herself/himself, but I sense that we appreciate each other. Further, I’d like to know this person, a person who is clearly glad to see me.

THE TRUCK

Also on Beaver Dam every morning, a very large industrial (not municipal) BARC garbage truck lumbers by going to what I assume is a dump and then coming back. The driver waves and honks at me both times. Because I wear a bright yellow reflective safety vest with matching hat (cars pay no heed to hikers) the driver may wonder if I, too, am a BARC worker. Actually, I wouldn’t mind helping out someone who customarily connects with me.

THE EXCHANGE

A la L. B. Jeffries — Jimmy Stewart’s character in the Hitchcock thriller, “Read Window” — I have also witnessed crimes — in my case, sunrise drug deals. The tens of thousands of BARC acres are located in a relatively remote area with plenty of concealed places to pull off to make illegal exchanges. These deals typically involve two cars with two occupants in each. From my monocular, I watch two occupants from one car pull out from a brown paper bag a smaller plastic bag containing a white powder. Rolls of bills are then quickly stuffed into the brown paper bag by the occupants of the other car. Heart-racing, I assume I can’t be seen from the middle of a field. The occupants never look my way, but I wonder if one day, I will have to duck and . . . well, there is no cover, no place to hide. These guys (and they are always men of color, I am sorry to report) will never be happy to see me. 

THE STALKER

Finally, and perhaps inevitably in this day and age, there is my stalker. I know him. I know his name. I know where he lives . . . less than one-half mile away from my home, on the same road I live on.  

About a decade ago, my stalker suffered a severe stroke and is paralyzed on his left side. Before his stroke, he was a Smithsonian photographer, and is now on disability. Four years ago, I made the huge mistake of telling him about the specific places where I photograph BARC sunrises. Now every morning he shows up to take his own photos and then slowly tails me in his silver Toyota sedan. Several times on back roads where I walk, he has followed so closely, I can feel the heat of his car engine on my back. Too many times, from the middle of the barley field, I have seen him slow down on Beaver Dam Road to observe me and then bolt away at the last second to avoid being hit from behind by speeding cars and yes, that huge garbage truck. My truck driver yells an obscenity and acknowledges my stalker with a middle-finger salute.

I so wish I had the nerve to do the same, but my stalker’s obvious disability is one helluva defense mechanism. I’ve only been able to gently and no doubt obliquely say to him that BARC is my sanctuary where I meditate in silence, hoping he will get the message. He hasn’t. He still shows up, now not actually slowing down on Beaver Dam Road, but parking close by, waiting and watching to see if I notice him. Thankfully, many animals (rabbits, deer, foxes, ground hogs) and birds (geese, hawks, starlings, crows, eagles) are also in my field of vision and these creatures go far to divert my attention and respect my privacy.

THE SUNRISE

Last but not least, there is the rising sun which blinds me not only to my stalker, but also to my judgements, my fears, my mistakes, my regrets. Every morning I have the glorious gift of witnessing the sunrise as it creates the world and lights up my field where prayers are heard and answered – everywhere. All prayers. Everywhere. Millions witness this fury of light every morning and, as Mary Oliver envisions in her poem, “Sunrise”: 

I am so many!

What is my name?

What is the name

of the deep breath I would take

over and over

for all of us? Call it

whatever you want, it is

happiness, it is another one

of the ways to enter fire.