Youth

There are brief moments when a photograph of a sunset or the soft moon light bathing the room in her silver glow offers a hopeful glimpse into the possibility of peace. They are short, but there. And, in these moments I realize that I occupy a place in which I can say "in my youth."

In my youth, I was bouyant with life. Life and love bursting out of every seam of my soul. There is one specific memory ... it was either freshman or sophomore year in college and it was night. Late. My best friend and I, brazen with that sense of invincibility, were taking a walk around our college campus in Baltimore. We veered towards the Baltimore Art Museum.  We were so happy and for no reason at all. Well, that is not true. We were aware of our luck: to be alive and in love. Ferverously in love with life. We climbed up on the statue outside the museum and just laughed and talked. About what, I do not remember. I do remember the fire in our souls, that lit up our eyes and coarsed through our fiber. Time was relative and it stood still. The rest of our lives lay ahead of us: an endless shimmering sea of possibilities and a horizon in which it was hard to imagine an end. That moment was youth. And, it makes me smile.

Seeing

Today, I was reluctantly waiting to turn Left at a red traffic light, irritated about how slow the driver before me had been and how I wouldn't be sitting there if he had moved a little faster, that dud. Then, beyond the red light I saw a huge tree with it's leaffull branches swaying gently and delicately, leaves fluttering and reflecting the sunlight. Beyond the tree I saw the deep blue canvas of the day's sky scattered with whispy cotton tendril clouds moving almost indiscernibly eastward. I smiled. Silently, I thanked the slow driver for creating this circumstance.

How often we must look at the sky during the course of one day - driving around in our four wheeled boxes, walking here, going there off in a hurry, looking out the window for a split second, maybe. How often do we really see the sky - perceive the changes in the hue of blue, grey, indigo, orange, lavender, and pink.  How often do we notice the texture, depth, and dimension of the clouds or contemplate that they are merely solidified water floating through the sky.

One day, I will no longer be. My eyes will not perceive the sky, or notice the inching of the clouds. My skin will not feel the oppressiveness of 91 degrees on a humid day in Nashville. The water from my flesh will evaporate and probably into one of those clouds. For now, I will see the sky, feel the heat. At least, I will try.