| You know there are certain moments in life that you wish you could stretch into an eternity. I�m beginning to think that if there is a heaven, then it is a compilation of these moments and experiences that forms it for each of us, the living of life�s moments attuning us to comprehend a different existence. (That should be the last of the spiritualistic theory) If this is true, than my personal heaven was added to by a fleeting moment a few days ago. It was a Sunday, early afternoon. The temperature had dropped substantially, and the foliage of the sycamores and elms lining the brick paved street was already highlighted with red and gold. A northerly breeze was causing a few of the early falling leaves to dance along the curbs, but the flitting squirrels didn�t stop their foraging to notice. I had just returned to this, the house that my grandmother grew up in, for the first time in years. This broad three story colonial monument to another time, with its square white columns and dark red brick, was mortared with memories and gilt with hopes and dreams. And while its floorboards were sagging under the weight of time, and its paint was peeling from the ravages of the elements, it was still standing tall over the river at the end of the street when our car pulled up beside it. I stepped out onto the overgrown lawn and looked at the carefully manicured lawn of the house next door. Amelia Earhart had grown up there, and that house was now an immaculately kept museum where tourists walked through daily to see memorabilia from the life of that famous woman. I thought of the personal museum in front of me, a museum of stories, full of echoes of lives. It was then that I realized something that I think is relatively important in my short life so far. This place, where I have never lived, felt like home. I think that, on occasion, we get our emotions and memories mixed up with things and places, maybe because sometimes, things and places are more constant and understandable than people we love. I think there is a special magic held in the walls that once surrounded beloved ancestors. I stood there in the yard of this museum and listened. I listened to the sound of children playing football down the street. I listened to the birds chattering in the huge trees. I listened to a train crossing the river in the distance. I listened to the breathing of the woman standing beside me. I listened to the echoes of heaven in a fleeting moment and realized what the sound of a beating heart really is. It is moments like these I know I will cling to in my darkest hours. In those times when the world in my eyes has a much different appearance and everything is bleak and twisted, and when the wear of time and the elements steals away all those I have loved and makes my frame feeble and sick, in those times, I will cling to moments like this one, close my eyes, and listen. When my heart beats its last I hope only that my memories sing with a melody of moments like these, and that they are able to echo in a place, with loved ones, as beautiful as those I have known. I think that every person on this planet has moments like these, some just might not recognize many for one reason or another. I think one of the main reasons for us being here is to weave these moments into a tapestry of a life that connects with as many other people�s as possible. In this time, when the world has become a much more complicated and scary place in the blink of an eye, I am really curious to hear about a moment from other people�s lives. My question to you all is�what moment, simple or elaborate, can you remember in detail that has helped you (to steal a line from Whitman) to hear the song of yourself? And why do you think it affected you the way it did? Or do you think this is far to simplistic of an approach to things�let me know if you disagree ;-) |
| The Good Things |