People I admire are unafraid. They proudly wear unnaturally-colored hair, have tattoos, and let their imaginations run wild. They are positive, unpredictable, and they recycle because they want to. They are equally at home in the city or the country. They know what's going on behind my eyes, know what to say at the right time, and can make me laugh when I need it. They love music, and might play piano, a cello, or an acoustic guitar. They appreciate simplicity and shun the "new and improved." They may not have one of their own, but they love animals. They have many stories to tell, and they know when to tell them and when not to. They are social, and yet they appreciate solitude. They are happy with themselves and won't ridicule someone else.
This is just a list I started jotting down one time for fun. Some of these are traits I possess, and others are not. Many times I find myself oddly jealous of other people that have different personalities than I do, then tell myself I have talents they do not have, know things they do not know, carry memories they have not shared, and have had a lifetime of different experiences than the ones they have had. I may not actually admire the person, but maybe I admire something they are able to do, or something they've accomplished.
Maybe they actually admire something about me.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Sunday, March 6, 2016
The Old Man
It was a warm summer afternoon and the park was alive with activity. Children ran and played, their shrieks and laughter piercing the lazy afternoon. Their energy seemed almost alien to the unmoving adults that sat nearby with their solemn expressions and watchful eyes. As they watched the young versions of themselves, they tried to remember a time when they were the ones doing the running and shrieking. They sighed as they gazed.
Nobody paid any attention to the old gentleman as he strolled into the park. He carried a tattered violin case with bits of aged, yellowish leather showing plainly through wounds in its black outer coating. He was dressed plainly but was well groomed--his thin, frosty hair long but well kept. He looked like any other elderly park visitor, a person unconcerned with the passage of time. Had anyone been close enough to him they might have seen the mischievous glint in his watery, pale-blue eyes as they surveyed the setting. Seating himself carefully on a large rock near the edge of the manicured park lawn, he placed the violin case on the ground at his feet. Each of the latches made a soft clack as he flipped them open, and he lifted the lid of the old case and let it fall backward onto the warm grass. He slowly straightened back up, and with great deliberation and care, he removed his light gray jacket and folded it, placing it on the lid of the open case before him. Then he gingerly lifted a gleaming violin and placed it beneath his chin. Smiling to himself, he closed his eyes and gently drew the bow across the strings.
No sound came from the violin.
At that instant, every child in the park looked toward him, smiled almost imperceptibly, and went quickly back to what they were doing.
They instantly knew who he was and why he was there. They had never seen the old man before but they felt they had always known him. Though there was no sound, the children knew what came from his violin. It was not sound that an ear could perceive, but it was music. It was the music they experienced every summer day. It was the music of childhood, of summer. It was youth.
All of the adults were momentarily confused. They had no explanation for the strangeness that suddenly washed over them. They all paused and stared blankly in front of them as they tried to understand what was happening.
There was a feeling they couldn’t explain, a glowing warmth that filled their minds. They felt a pleasure--a sort of vertigo. It was a familiar feeling, but distant at the same time. Then they began to remember. The feelings of past memories began to return.
They remembered the smell of the golden, dry grasses of a summer field, and the feeling of dirty, bare feet running on a hard-packed path. They remembered screaming with delight as the cold water of the lawn sprinkler knocked the air from their lungs.
They remembered.
They remembered lazing under a tree and analyzing every fluffy cloud in the bright blue summer sky. They again heard the songs of the Popsicle man as he turned down their street, prompting them to scream "Mom! Ice cream!" and go running into the house, hoping for a dollar. They remembered the juice exploding from their mouth and running down their chin as they bit into the most perfect slice of cool watermelon in the world.
They smiled through closed eyes as they remembered.
They went whirling back to the dusty smell of a summer rain as they rode their bicycles as fast as they could pedal before the impending storm threatened to drench them. They remembered braiding their best friend's hair as they draped across the porch swing, each giggling while they shared something the boy across the street had said. They remembered lying on their stomach, inches from a beetle, gently prodding it and analyzing every detail about it as it tried to slink away.
Yes, they remembered.
The blast of noise when they poked their head out the open car window from the back seat--laughing as the wind blew through their hair, the time spent searching for the perfect shaped rock that would skip all the way across the river, that apple pie that grandma made!
They remembered it all.
They all smiled, eyes closed, as it all flooded their minds like a desert cloudburst filling a dry stream bed. They danced in their daydreams as the childhood experiences of summers burst to the surface from the dark depths of their memory. They found themselves again swirling with the giddy, carefree happiness of youth.
The old man opened his eyes, and smiling to himself, he slowed the bow and brought it to a stop. The magical song of youth slowly faded from their minds, its dying notes blending imperceptibly with those of the children playing nearby. The adults, no longer held by the spell of the violin, slowly woke from their youthful dreams. Momentarily disappointed, smiles slowly returned to their faces as they remembered what had been awakened by the magic. Bending down, they removed their shoes and socks, and let their toes feel the tickle of the sun-warmed grass. They smiled at the sensations as if they had suddenly found a long-forgotten room in their mind, a distant book that had been left behind and covered with dust and cobwebs. They reveled in the rediscovered feelings that washed over them. Standing up one by one, they began to move toward their children. Smiles growing, they walked more quickly, and broke into a run. They laughed and cried as they joined the youngsters at play. They played as children would play, their shrieks of joys mixing with those of their children.
The old man slowly placed his violin and bow back into the tattered case and put his jacket back on. He closed the lid, and grasping the handle, slowly stood up and watched the activity for a few seconds. Smiling, he turned and slowly shuffled back the way he had come.
The children all glanced at him briefly, thanking him silently for what he had done, and they turned their attention back to their new playmates. They hoped he would return some day when they were older--when they needed him.
When they needed to remember.
Nobody paid any attention to the old gentleman as he strolled into the park. He carried a tattered violin case with bits of aged, yellowish leather showing plainly through wounds in its black outer coating. He was dressed plainly but was well groomed--his thin, frosty hair long but well kept. He looked like any other elderly park visitor, a person unconcerned with the passage of time. Had anyone been close enough to him they might have seen the mischievous glint in his watery, pale-blue eyes as they surveyed the setting. Seating himself carefully on a large rock near the edge of the manicured park lawn, he placed the violin case on the ground at his feet. Each of the latches made a soft clack as he flipped them open, and he lifted the lid of the old case and let it fall backward onto the warm grass. He slowly straightened back up, and with great deliberation and care, he removed his light gray jacket and folded it, placing it on the lid of the open case before him. Then he gingerly lifted a gleaming violin and placed it beneath his chin. Smiling to himself, he closed his eyes and gently drew the bow across the strings.
No sound came from the violin.
At that instant, every child in the park looked toward him, smiled almost imperceptibly, and went quickly back to what they were doing.
They instantly knew who he was and why he was there. They had never seen the old man before but they felt they had always known him. Though there was no sound, the children knew what came from his violin. It was not sound that an ear could perceive, but it was music. It was the music they experienced every summer day. It was the music of childhood, of summer. It was youth.
All of the adults were momentarily confused. They had no explanation for the strangeness that suddenly washed over them. They all paused and stared blankly in front of them as they tried to understand what was happening.
There was a feeling they couldn’t explain, a glowing warmth that filled their minds. They felt a pleasure--a sort of vertigo. It was a familiar feeling, but distant at the same time. Then they began to remember. The feelings of past memories began to return.
They remembered the smell of the golden, dry grasses of a summer field, and the feeling of dirty, bare feet running on a hard-packed path. They remembered screaming with delight as the cold water of the lawn sprinkler knocked the air from their lungs.
They remembered.
They remembered lazing under a tree and analyzing every fluffy cloud in the bright blue summer sky. They again heard the songs of the Popsicle man as he turned down their street, prompting them to scream "Mom! Ice cream!" and go running into the house, hoping for a dollar. They remembered the juice exploding from their mouth and running down their chin as they bit into the most perfect slice of cool watermelon in the world.
They smiled through closed eyes as they remembered.
They went whirling back to the dusty smell of a summer rain as they rode their bicycles as fast as they could pedal before the impending storm threatened to drench them. They remembered braiding their best friend's hair as they draped across the porch swing, each giggling while they shared something the boy across the street had said. They remembered lying on their stomach, inches from a beetle, gently prodding it and analyzing every detail about it as it tried to slink away.
Yes, they remembered.
The blast of noise when they poked their head out the open car window from the back seat--laughing as the wind blew through their hair, the time spent searching for the perfect shaped rock that would skip all the way across the river, that apple pie that grandma made!
They remembered it all.
They all smiled, eyes closed, as it all flooded their minds like a desert cloudburst filling a dry stream bed. They danced in their daydreams as the childhood experiences of summers burst to the surface from the dark depths of their memory. They found themselves again swirling with the giddy, carefree happiness of youth.
The old man opened his eyes, and smiling to himself, he slowed the bow and brought it to a stop. The magical song of youth slowly faded from their minds, its dying notes blending imperceptibly with those of the children playing nearby. The adults, no longer held by the spell of the violin, slowly woke from their youthful dreams. Momentarily disappointed, smiles slowly returned to their faces as they remembered what had been awakened by the magic. Bending down, they removed their shoes and socks, and let their toes feel the tickle of the sun-warmed grass. They smiled at the sensations as if they had suddenly found a long-forgotten room in their mind, a distant book that had been left behind and covered with dust and cobwebs. They reveled in the rediscovered feelings that washed over them. Standing up one by one, they began to move toward their children. Smiles growing, they walked more quickly, and broke into a run. They laughed and cried as they joined the youngsters at play. They played as children would play, their shrieks of joys mixing with those of their children.
The old man slowly placed his violin and bow back into the tattered case and put his jacket back on. He closed the lid, and grasping the handle, slowly stood up and watched the activity for a few seconds. Smiling, he turned and slowly shuffled back the way he had come.
The children all glanced at him briefly, thanking him silently for what he had done, and they turned their attention back to their new playmates. They hoped he would return some day when they were older--when they needed him.
When they needed to remember.
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