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All the glory

April 29, 2011

This morning the sun was streaming in the windows. It has been so gray and so wet for so long, that it made me want to kiss someone, anyone who happened to walk by. I got the bare minimum of my writing done, tied my shoes, jammed my headphones in my ears, and set out for a walk. Six miles later, I was home but wished I were still walking.

I stopped at the river and stood on the pier, nearly submerged after all the rain, looking at the sun glinting off the waves. Two geese ducked under the water by the nearest boat dock. I stared into the water, but saw nothing but the reflection of the sky and the top of my head. I wondered what it would be like to take off all my clothes and plunge naked into the cold and muddy river. I wondered what it is that kept me from doing it. Not that I thought I would. I was just curious.

I continued along the pasture and through the gap in the fence, widened since last fall, past the golf course parking lot and up the hilly road around the far side of the course. I turned into the townhouse development and turned left by the marsh, where the red-wing blackbirds were singing and the frogs were croaking so loudly they nearly drowned out my music. I turned up the volume, because it was Sufjan Stevens and for the first time – ever, I think – I really listened to the lyrics of “Casimir Pulaski Day” and it was a whole block before I realized there were tears running down my face. By that point I was in the industrial park. Then Three Dog Night’s “Shambala” came on and I had to hold myself back from dancing down the street. And I wondered what would happen if I did. And I wondered why I cared. I consoled myself for not dancing by walking with one foot on the curb and one foot in the gutter. I was pretty sure I looked like a crazy person. I wondered if I actually was a crazy person. I decided that I *didn’t* care about that. And then I was at the railroad crossing and the curb was gone and the song was over and I trudged back through town with all the wrong music.

But a sunny day is a sunny day and I’ll take it with or without the proper soundtrack. Sometimes, I thought, it is remembering your proximity to disaster that reminds you of all the glory in small things. When I got back to my yard, the bluebells were blooming.

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. April 29, 2011 9:40 pm

    I think I know what you mean about thinking about plunging into the river and dancing down the street. Sometimes I sing in public, but when I see another human form, I usually tone it way down. Unless it’s “You Gotta Have Skin” because having an audience just encourages me on that one.

  2. May 2, 2011 8:15 am

    I was previously unfamiliar with “You Gotta Have Skin.” Thanks for the introduction!

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