For Summer, Pt. 2
(continued from the last entry)
In the evening, I drive north to hang out with friends in a northern suburb. I drive the roads, this time for my amusement. I weave in and out of traffic. The music blares out of my car speakers. I sing along with Sting or Madonna or Nickel Creek. The music will represent however I’m feeling that day. Today is probably a day for one of my guilty pleasure CD’s. I sing about love, and deep needs, passion. My soul aches to have someone to share itself with. I put it aside, and allow myself to be pleased by the vistas of the sun setting over the mountains to the west. I exit the interstate at 120th, and I complete my drive. I hang out with my friends, reading their eyes to see what kind of day they had. I try to listen to them, to pick up what they’re not saying in what they’re saying. People say so much without ever saying a word. Will they look at you when they speak? Will they talk about things other than where their mind is? These indicators say a lot about where their hearts are. Regardless, we are all pleased to be in one another’s company. The comedian in the group is keeping us all occupied with a story of what happened last week. I laugh, full on, until the tears come. I am pleased to be here. These are people who know my faults, probably better than I do, but they don’t judge me for them. We play games, or watch a game. We cheer. We talk politics. We talk about our faiths. We talk. Sometime after midnight, the party breaks up so we can all sleep.
I drive home alone, again with the music blaring. Most likely, the music has become more pensive now that it’s later. The day is winding down. The roads are mostly deserted. The cloak of darkness has fallen, and the earth sleeps under its protection. The lights of the houses and the streetlights grant purpose to the small halos of land they illuminate. I get back on the interstate, and just as I’m getting ready to exit, I crest a hill on I-25 south, and the whole of Denver, illuminated by the streetlights that appear as tiny specks in the distance, appears laid out before me. I finish my drive home, creeping silently into the house. My roommate is still awake. We talk about our days. It’s been just another day. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least, nothing we care to discuss. He leaves to go to bed. I wait until he’s asleep, and then go and grab my volume of Wordsworth. I read several of his poems, flipping through the dogearred pages almost by memory. I read “We are Seven.” I follow it with others: “She dwelt among the ways untrodden,” “Strange fits of passion have I known,” “Beauty and Moonlight,” “Character of the Happy Warrior,” The first part of “The Prelude,” (starting at about line 270) that I like so much, the part where he steals the boat and confronts the mountains. I nod, and close the book, replacing it back on the bookshelf-hidden from plain sight, but where I can reach it easily the next time I feel the need. I walk across the room, and look at the framed picture I’ve placed there-it has a picture of the sun rising over the ocean, and beneath the picture it says, “Believe and Succeed: Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it is the still quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.” It’s been a good day. With it’s ups and downs perhaps, but a good day. And I will try again tomorrow. I change into my flannel pajamas and crawl beneath the mountains of blankets on my bed. I wrap myself up, turn on the fan, and let the air flow over my face. I put on my headphones and listen to a song off the Braveheart soundtrack, “For the Love of a Princess.” Perhaps I’ll dream of her tonight, and she’ll have a face this time. I close my eyes and drift off, trying as best I can to savor that 15 seconds where you realize you’re about to sleep: the blessed letting go.and the day has ended.
(I know this sounds like it’s just a day, but it’s really so much more than that. The sensations, however simple, are real, and deep. They please me. They give me joy. This is how it is, and this is why it’s impossible for me to totally lose it. Even when everything else goes awry, these things remain. How could I be unhappy with all this? I’m not done talking about what I find beautiful. I just wanted you to fully understand how much beauty I find in the everyday. And I haven’t even really done it justice here. It’s so much more than what my meager words have portrayed it as. And I have it waiting for me, every time I wake up. Is it possible to be more blessed than that? Perhaps, but it would be fleeting. I imagine sometimes that getting to heaven will be like that first 30 minutes of my day-waking from a sleep of undetermined length into a reality I’m not quite sure of. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m getting cleaned up, putting on clothes that fit me better. I walk into a room filled with light and feast at a table that is filled with flavors and smells. I know it sounds silly, but it’s a simple way to get the day started. I’ll talk more about this.I’m not done with beauty yet.there’s more. I told you I was a romantic. Maybe now you’ll start to believe me. I’m hopeless, and wouldn’t have it another way.)