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.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Hair Today...
I'm 59 years old and I've had short hair all my life.
When I was a wee little bastard my hair was kept short because it was the easiest way to maintain it. Because mom cut our hair, short hair was the obvious choice. After all, buzzing a kid's hair into a blond toothbrush was not rocket science.
In the late sixties and early seventies I wanted long hair so badly. I wanted to belong to the counter-culture that was booming at the time. I remember one time leaving Massey's, our local grocery store with my family, and out front, talking with someone was a guy that had hair that was easily mid-way down his back.
"Ha, would you want hair like that?" my dad asked with disdain, obviously meaning to ridicule the man to me.
"No," I answered simply. I was too chickenshit to say any different. I knew what he expected to hear. Inside, however, it was anything but the right answer. I wanted that hair. I wanted to be that guy. Badly. I wanted to have hair that spoke out and said, "Fuck you people! See this? I'm not afraid to be different!"
Not long after that, in an effort to escape my family and strike out on my own, I joined the Air Force. When that happened, my hair was cut even shorter. I couldn't win. Six years later I was discharged, and wouldn't you know it--long hair was no longer in style.
I felt like I missed the whole damn thing.
Daring to be different, I grew my hair out anyway. It got fairly long, but because my hair is not very straight, it didn't hang down and behave. I didn't consider how it looked really--I just wanted to grow my hair long. That all changed one day when I saw a reflection of myself in the window of the car dealership I worked at. What I saw on top of my head looked like a shorter version of Roseanne Roseannadanna's hair. I was mortified. I was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I looked completely stupid. That sudden realization was likely made worse by the worn out Mickey Mouse baseball cap I was wearing at the time to keep it under control. Anyway, I was struck with a kind of confusion--like I didn't even really know who I was or where I was going.
I turned conformist.
Years went by. I got regular haircuts like people do, annoyed that I had to pay money for something I didn't want in the first place. I treated haircuts like a necessary evil. When I got married to my second wife I was ecstatic to learn that she knew how to cut hair. Now I didn't have to pay for haircuts! I didn't have to even get dressed for one!
When we divorced last summer I began to rethink things. I realized that during that marriage my hair had, slowly but surely, become shorter--almost to the point it was during my childhood. When that realization hit me, I started doing things differently. I am becoming reacquainted with my hair. It's very gray these days, but I still have all of it. Now I celebrate my hair and treat it with some respect. (I have learned the value of conditioner!) Even in a car with air conditioning I have always preferred to drive with the windows down, and now my hair blows around when I do so.
Better late than never.
When I was a wee little bastard my hair was kept short because it was the easiest way to maintain it. Because mom cut our hair, short hair was the obvious choice. After all, buzzing a kid's hair into a blond toothbrush was not rocket science.
In the late sixties and early seventies I wanted long hair so badly. I wanted to belong to the counter-culture that was booming at the time. I remember one time leaving Massey's, our local grocery store with my family, and out front, talking with someone was a guy that had hair that was easily mid-way down his back.
"Ha, would you want hair like that?" my dad asked with disdain, obviously meaning to ridicule the man to me.
"No," I answered simply. I was too chickenshit to say any different. I knew what he expected to hear. Inside, however, it was anything but the right answer. I wanted that hair. I wanted to be that guy. Badly. I wanted to have hair that spoke out and said, "Fuck you people! See this? I'm not afraid to be different!"
Not long after that, in an effort to escape my family and strike out on my own, I joined the Air Force. When that happened, my hair was cut even shorter. I couldn't win. Six years later I was discharged, and wouldn't you know it--long hair was no longer in style.
I felt like I missed the whole damn thing.
Daring to be different, I grew my hair out anyway. It got fairly long, but because my hair is not very straight, it didn't hang down and behave. I didn't consider how it looked really--I just wanted to grow my hair long. That all changed one day when I saw a reflection of myself in the window of the car dealership I worked at. What I saw on top of my head looked like a shorter version of Roseanne Roseannadanna's hair. I was mortified. I was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I looked completely stupid. That sudden realization was likely made worse by the worn out Mickey Mouse baseball cap I was wearing at the time to keep it under control. Anyway, I was struck with a kind of confusion--like I didn't even really know who I was or where I was going.
I turned conformist.
Years went by. I got regular haircuts like people do, annoyed that I had to pay money for something I didn't want in the first place. I treated haircuts like a necessary evil. When I got married to my second wife I was ecstatic to learn that she knew how to cut hair. Now I didn't have to pay for haircuts! I didn't have to even get dressed for one!
When we divorced last summer I began to rethink things. I realized that during that marriage my hair had, slowly but surely, become shorter--almost to the point it was during my childhood. When that realization hit me, I started doing things differently. I am becoming reacquainted with my hair. It's very gray these days, but I still have all of it. Now I celebrate my hair and treat it with some respect. (I have learned the value of conditioner!) Even in a car with air conditioning I have always preferred to drive with the windows down, and now my hair blows around when I do so.
Better late than never.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
The Romance in my Mind!
When I hear those things that trigger the emotion, the daydreams, the relaxed, drifting mind and the far-off eyes... Something has stuck a chord. It doesn't have to be anything really--it can be a scent, a sound, the lick of a blues guitar, a spoken word, or the sublime flavor of a special food. Something might stir inside me.
I'll sometimes drift far enough away from reality that I'm disappointed when I return.
It might be the most ordinary of moments--just listening to the TV in the back of my mind while I'm looking through a color newsprint circular that I found lying, forlorn, in my driveway. I might be idly staring out the window at the sky as it slowly fades from view with a splash of evening color.
I don't always know when I'm in the throes of a romance moment, and I'll bet I sometimes sit with a grin on my face as the sights, smells, and feelings wash over me.
I seldom ignore my inner voice when there is an opportunity to better the moment. I may satiate myself with a food that sounds good when I know it's not good for me, but I try not to make it a habit. I drink quite a bit, but I don't drink to be wasted--I want only a buzz. I smoke a little weed too, but I'm not running from life--I'm trying to underline it and italicize it. I don't like to lose control, but I do want to let my mind wander with a little more fluidity. Everybody has a different definition of what it means to live. While some people may consider gravity-defying adrenaline sports to be the only way to truly experience life, others my consider living to be the pursuit of feeding their mind with reading and thinking. Like Grace Slick said in the 60's anthem, White Rabbit, "feed your head." Think about things. Ponder things. Romance things.
I can't help but always notice when something sounds better than the status quo. The sudden realization that something might be an improvement sets my mind reeling with anticipation. When I first had the notion to buy an electric blanket, the romance I had for the idea was food for thought. I kept thinking of how nice and cozy it would be if I had one. That romance was exceeded only by the feeling I actually had when I eventually slid my bare skin beneath it on a chilly evening. Things that are so simple, and yet--present such a delicious leap in sensory input! I relish them.
I watch a movie that I've seen before and I find myself overcome with emotion at certain scenes. Why? Because my mind played the scene over in my mind before it unfolded, that's why. I knew it was coming. Having seen the movie before, my mind romanced my favorite scenes. It amplified them. It had my emotions on the "edge of their seat" with anticipation.
I see a vacation destination, a superhero, a picture of a man on a motorcycle--it doesn't matter--my wandering mind might sail off in the direction of a daydream.
Sometimes I do live the dream, but more often than not I only romance it. Does that frustrate me? No. I find myself saying, "thank you for that moment" when I have a good mental recess--thanking it for the brief reprieve from reality. Thanking it for letting me relax my thoughts and let my stress taper off. A deep sigh of appreciation, a glint of faraway eyes, and a faint smile.
The smile of romance.
I'll sometimes drift far enough away from reality that I'm disappointed when I return.
It might be the most ordinary of moments--just listening to the TV in the back of my mind while I'm looking through a color newsprint circular that I found lying, forlorn, in my driveway. I might be idly staring out the window at the sky as it slowly fades from view with a splash of evening color.
I don't always know when I'm in the throes of a romance moment, and I'll bet I sometimes sit with a grin on my face as the sights, smells, and feelings wash over me.
I seldom ignore my inner voice when there is an opportunity to better the moment. I may satiate myself with a food that sounds good when I know it's not good for me, but I try not to make it a habit. I drink quite a bit, but I don't drink to be wasted--I want only a buzz. I smoke a little weed too, but I'm not running from life--I'm trying to underline it and italicize it. I don't like to lose control, but I do want to let my mind wander with a little more fluidity. Everybody has a different definition of what it means to live. While some people may consider gravity-defying adrenaline sports to be the only way to truly experience life, others my consider living to be the pursuit of feeding their mind with reading and thinking. Like Grace Slick said in the 60's anthem, White Rabbit, "feed your head." Think about things. Ponder things. Romance things.
I can't help but always notice when something sounds better than the status quo. The sudden realization that something might be an improvement sets my mind reeling with anticipation. When I first had the notion to buy an electric blanket, the romance I had for the idea was food for thought. I kept thinking of how nice and cozy it would be if I had one. That romance was exceeded only by the feeling I actually had when I eventually slid my bare skin beneath it on a chilly evening. Things that are so simple, and yet--present such a delicious leap in sensory input! I relish them.
I watch a movie that I've seen before and I find myself overcome with emotion at certain scenes. Why? Because my mind played the scene over in my mind before it unfolded, that's why. I knew it was coming. Having seen the movie before, my mind romanced my favorite scenes. It amplified them. It had my emotions on the "edge of their seat" with anticipation.
I see a vacation destination, a superhero, a picture of a man on a motorcycle--it doesn't matter--my wandering mind might sail off in the direction of a daydream.
Sometimes I do live the dream, but more often than not I only romance it. Does that frustrate me? No. I find myself saying, "thank you for that moment" when I have a good mental recess--thanking it for the brief reprieve from reality. Thanking it for letting me relax my thoughts and let my stress taper off. A deep sigh of appreciation, a glint of faraway eyes, and a faint smile.
The smile of romance.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Artsy Movie
While I have always been an huge lover of movies, I find myself lately choosing and watching them with a different attitude than I used to have. Instead of choosing a movie based on preconceived notions of what I was expecting to see or happen in it (like choosing a movie because I know it has action or naked women in it), I find myself choosing or watching them with more of an open mind, examining them. I find myself looking at them from an art perspective. I think I'm analyzing them on the fly, and noting nuances that I find appealing. I end up falling in love with a particular scene, perfect music choice, creative camera angle, unusual story line, or any number of things that may stand out while I'm watching it. I also am becoming more emotional during movies.
Recently, I watched Bagdad Cafe. I have seen it once before but only recently acquired it for myself. The movie was put together with a high degree of art-inspired cinematography. It is full of great camera angles, and lots of scenes that were shot purposefully over-saturated for a particular feeling. What tied the whole movie together for me was the song that played throughout the movie: I'm Calling You, by Jevetta Steele. The feel of the song was perfect for the movie. You can picture the dusty motel/cafe out in the middle of the desert while you're listening to the song. It just oozes loneliness.
Throughout the movie there is a boy that is constantly playing Bach on a piano. He plays it in a particularly dry, monotonous manner--like someone that is practicing their scales over and over. In one scene, Jasmin, the main character enters the diner, and the boy stops playing--remembering his mother always telling him to stop playing when a guest comes into the diner. The woman tells him to please keep playing. The boy smiles slowly and begins playing, and she sits nearby him with her eyes closed. The transformation of the music in that scene is almost spiritual. It completely changes into something that is melodic and beautiful, and makes another truly great scene.
This is a movie that people will either love or hate. It has enough oddball stuff in it that it will have the superficial, action movie lovers wondering, "What the hell kind of movie is this?" I can't say I love every scene in the movie either. What I can say is I love the movie overall.
Recently, I watched Bagdad Cafe. I have seen it once before but only recently acquired it for myself. The movie was put together with a high degree of art-inspired cinematography. It is full of great camera angles, and lots of scenes that were shot purposefully over-saturated for a particular feeling. What tied the whole movie together for me was the song that played throughout the movie: I'm Calling You, by Jevetta Steele. The feel of the song was perfect for the movie. You can picture the dusty motel/cafe out in the middle of the desert while you're listening to the song. It just oozes loneliness.
Throughout the movie there is a boy that is constantly playing Bach on a piano. He plays it in a particularly dry, monotonous manner--like someone that is practicing their scales over and over. In one scene, Jasmin, the main character enters the diner, and the boy stops playing--remembering his mother always telling him to stop playing when a guest comes into the diner. The woman tells him to please keep playing. The boy smiles slowly and begins playing, and she sits nearby him with her eyes closed. The transformation of the music in that scene is almost spiritual. It completely changes into something that is melodic and beautiful, and makes another truly great scene.
This is a movie that people will either love or hate. It has enough oddball stuff in it that it will have the superficial, action movie lovers wondering, "What the hell kind of movie is this?" I can't say I love every scene in the movie either. What I can say is I love the movie overall.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Divorced Again
My recent lifestyle change has been a pleasant one. Even though I have been on my own several times in the past, I had forgotten how much I enjoy the quiet times and predictability of being alone. I knew I missed it, but I didn't know how much. Where most people tend to be bored out of their skull, I find myself being very relaxed, thoughtful, and enjoying the time to reflect. I also find myself sleeping better. My new home is clothing optional, and thanks to the stellar weather we've had this summer since I've moved, it has been very optional--as in hardly ever. I find myself almost in a hurry to get home these days. While I have always been in a little bit of a hurry to get home, it was just so I could take my shoes off and have a beer. Now, it's different. I am hurrying home to my place. I can unwind. I can think.
Maybe it's partly because Edgewood, my new home, is almost a sort of rural oasis. It's surrounded on all sides by the hustle and bustle of traffic gridlock and human over-activity only a few miles away, but here it is very relaxed and quiet. There are large fields of grass, barns, pastures, and all sorts wide open spaces. There are very few apartment buildings here. I wake to the sounds of chickens, which I find strangely refreshing. Back behind my place there appears to be a menagerie of Alpacas, geese, and chickens. The geese occasionally emit their 'squonk' but other than that all I ever hear are the chickens. I love being able to slide a morning window open and hear chickens clucking or the occasional rooster crow, and none of them are close enough to bother me. Oddly enough, there seem to be no outdoor dogs anywhere around. Maybe people don't feel the need to have canine security devices here like they do in other places.
Things are peaceful. Things are predictable.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Smiling to Myself
I have had so many moments of contemplation since I have been back on my own that I can't even recall the number. You know the moments: times when the temperature is just right, the breeze is just right, the sounds are just right, a feeling is just right, or any other perfect moment presents itself and is noticed. At first I thought maybe that was it--I was just noticing them. After all, with only me here my new house is quiet. In addition to the quiet in the house, there is quiet outside the house. I would find myself noticing it and drinking it all in. I would smile to myself.
Standing naked at the open, chest-high bedroom window moments before getting into bed, I would lean on the windowsill, looking out at the sky. I'd find myself inhaling deeply as I stood, letting my eyes close slightly as I tasted the summer evening air with my hungry nostrils. When I opened my eyes, the the clouds--lit by the waning sun--seem to invite me to watch. "Don't close your window yet!" they seem to say. I watched them, marveling at the various shades of pale pink, peach yellow, and purple-blue as if it were my private show. At that moment it was if time was frozen. I would smile to myself, wanting the moment to go on forever. When I would finally relent, telling myself I have to go to bed, I didn't want to close the window or the blinds right away. I would lay on top of my bed, eyes closed, listening, smelling, and reliving the almost spiritual experience I had at the window moments before. I would fall asleep almost instantly, and yes--I would be smiling to myself. Sure, I would awaken a little later and close the window and blinds, but that didn't matter. I had my moment of appreciation.
Lying out in the back yard in the glaring hot sun, I would be in the same state. Taking deep, slow breaths it was if I was breathing for the first time, and I was reveling in the feeling of the sun baking my skin, my vision blood-red from the sun glaring on my closed eyelids. The sounds of chickens a short distance away, clucking as they searched for food was punctuated with an occasional rooster crow or squawk from a goose. The sound of a plane would catch my attention and I'd listen to it, mentally tracking with my eyes closed as it went across the sky. Suddenly, a breeze would come up, cooling me with a welcome relief and making the trees come alive with a whoosh of fluttering leaves. I smiled to myself. I think if anyone were to see me at that moment they would see the smile slowly spread across my face as if I had just recalled a pleasant memory.
Recently, the rains came. After two months of nary a sprinkle, thunderstorms arrived. For those of you that don't live here, we are seldom blessed with thunder and lightning. The shelter of a mountain range on two sides of us usually prevents us from any of nature's light shows. When the skies darkened with thick clouds and the slow rumble spread across the land that afternoon, I smiled to myself. As I sat in my living room that day, I heard a soft ping. Then another. And another. Then it occurred to me I was hearing the slow build of a summer rain, and the pinging sound was the heavy drops as they hit the metal chimney top--the sound coming down through the fireplace. I stopped what I was doing and listened to the music. The pinging from the chimney, the soft patter of the building rain hitting the canvas gazebo roof on the patio, punctuated with the occasional bass rumble of thunder. And yet--it was still warm enough to have all the windows open. It was perfect. I smiled to myself. When I went to bed that night it was raining heavily, and I stood at the window as I always do--breathing deep, listening, and feeling the cool breezes that came with the rain. When I lay down on top of my bed and closed my eyes, the sounds that came with the rain were pleasant to fall asleep to. There was no abundance of roof noise, downspout noise, or any other noise associated with the rain. It was music.
I smiled to myself.
Standing naked at the open, chest-high bedroom window moments before getting into bed, I would lean on the windowsill, looking out at the sky. I'd find myself inhaling deeply as I stood, letting my eyes close slightly as I tasted the summer evening air with my hungry nostrils. When I opened my eyes, the the clouds--lit by the waning sun--seem to invite me to watch. "Don't close your window yet!" they seem to say. I watched them, marveling at the various shades of pale pink, peach yellow, and purple-blue as if it were my private show. At that moment it was if time was frozen. I would smile to myself, wanting the moment to go on forever. When I would finally relent, telling myself I have to go to bed, I didn't want to close the window or the blinds right away. I would lay on top of my bed, eyes closed, listening, smelling, and reliving the almost spiritual experience I had at the window moments before. I would fall asleep almost instantly, and yes--I would be smiling to myself. Sure, I would awaken a little later and close the window and blinds, but that didn't matter. I had my moment of appreciation.
Lying out in the back yard in the glaring hot sun, I would be in the same state. Taking deep, slow breaths it was if I was breathing for the first time, and I was reveling in the feeling of the sun baking my skin, my vision blood-red from the sun glaring on my closed eyelids. The sounds of chickens a short distance away, clucking as they searched for food was punctuated with an occasional rooster crow or squawk from a goose. The sound of a plane would catch my attention and I'd listen to it, mentally tracking with my eyes closed as it went across the sky. Suddenly, a breeze would come up, cooling me with a welcome relief and making the trees come alive with a whoosh of fluttering leaves. I smiled to myself. I think if anyone were to see me at that moment they would see the smile slowly spread across my face as if I had just recalled a pleasant memory.
Recently, the rains came. After two months of nary a sprinkle, thunderstorms arrived. For those of you that don't live here, we are seldom blessed with thunder and lightning. The shelter of a mountain range on two sides of us usually prevents us from any of nature's light shows. When the skies darkened with thick clouds and the slow rumble spread across the land that afternoon, I smiled to myself. As I sat in my living room that day, I heard a soft ping. Then another. And another. Then it occurred to me I was hearing the slow build of a summer rain, and the pinging sound was the heavy drops as they hit the metal chimney top--the sound coming down through the fireplace. I stopped what I was doing and listened to the music. The pinging from the chimney, the soft patter of the building rain hitting the canvas gazebo roof on the patio, punctuated with the occasional bass rumble of thunder. And yet--it was still warm enough to have all the windows open. It was perfect. I smiled to myself. When I went to bed that night it was raining heavily, and I stood at the window as I always do--breathing deep, listening, and feeling the cool breezes that came with the rain. When I lay down on top of my bed and closed my eyes, the sounds that came with the rain were pleasant to fall asleep to. There was no abundance of roof noise, downspout noise, or any other noise associated with the rain. It was music.
I smiled to myself.
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