I'm walking back on a Tuesday (Tuesday! who ever thought I would be in love with a Tuesday!) evening rehearsal in a tiny room in a secondary school of the university at or around 8:45pm with the sun still brightening the horizon in April and it. is. perfect.
(Imagine rolled r's and a lilt with that perfect.)
In the back of my mind, I have the Whitacre Hebrew love songs that we were singing playing, but in the front of my mind, my heart is skipping along to the Teddy Bears on Parade song that my small baby teddy bear used to play when I was a tiny human, a wee lass, a little kid, and how that absolutely used to delight, me and I cannae think of a better thing to connect me with the person (imagine a pear-soon, again with that lilt that makes it sound much more reasonable, like the time I imitated David Tennant's accent when pronouncing the name of that tiny music building beside Hill Hall on Carolina's campus), again I say, connecting the tiny person I used to be with the person I am today, nearly skipping up the sidewalk to the place where my body rests night after night.
The moon here is perfect.
The weather here is perfect.
The words that the people say here are perfect.
And this simple perfect, this daylight as the evening rolls on, is everything that I've ever wanted as a human. I hae found where my soul rests and it seems that it rests here, on the pavement, not as tired as it should be, laid down relative inches away from a mighty eruption of the earth, dead since long before I was born, this modern convenience next to an ancient lack thereof and I wonder what it would have been like, when this little island was yearning to separate from a continent, when these hills were connected to the lava underneath, or even, centuries upon centuries later, when the people boiled with passion that overflowed and fought for their right to this piece of ground, by means much more physical than a parliamentary bill. I feel like I walk beside this time bomb, dancing in its heritage, holding to its long-forgotten life, relishing in it.
The moon is beautiful tonight, rising over the crags.
The song in my head is beautiful, waltzing back to the three-year-old I once was.
Life, in this moment, is its own kind of glory, fading into the evening the way the sunset will, but not yet. The air will cool, to something that my body will call cold but my skin will call chilled, and I'll think with a laugh back to the people who think, with glance toward the not-yet-opened window, that this is warm, and I'll understand that this is a place I can stay, my own thin place, my place where the earth and the air and the sky above endeavor to connect me to something that is not here, but is risen. And I'll feel it, that connection. I'll revel in its here-but-not-yet-here actuality. I'll roll over and hold on to it, this wonderful dream of the person I was allowed through some miracle to be.
And then I'll learn to let go.
somehow
Really enjoyed !
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