When it settles, motion is restricted, fond memory erased. All connection seems lost, and I spin.
It did not last long, and I am grateful. Blew through, blew out, as I slept. But I can still taste it this morning. It hides, but not well: The tail end of it pokes out between the bookshelf and the floor lamp. It is waiting for me to drop vigilance.
A word about this vigilance:
I once engaged a student in a debate about pessimism. He argued that anyone who is a realist is by default a pessimist, because there is nothing consistent in the world but war and death. He was an intelligent man, and an angry student who kept his facial expressions hidden behind a thick, woolly beard.
And it occurred to me then, how easy it is to by a cynic. So much easier. If war is a wheel, it is the squeakiest. If poverty is a color, it is the loudest. If all the ugly in the world is an elephant, it is the most space-taking in the global livingroom. It is not necessarily a matter of intelligence to notice; it is a matter of picking out that which is glaringly obvious.
Optimists often get jabbed. To be hopeful is to be oblivious, too mindless to understand. But I disagree. In a world on fire, it takes work to keep one eye on beauty and promise. It takes vigilance. And so this morning, I will take inventory before the cloud can settle and direct my thoughts.
- I am hungry, and there is fruit in the fridge.
- My dog sighs, and her nose is wet and shiny.
- The curtains are parted, and the fog is hovering just enough for texture.
- The grass is dewy and a richer green.
- The street is quiet, the cars still asleep.
- The turqoise cushion, with its missing button, appears to wink.
- The coffee is fresh and perfectly tanned by cream.
- The paper is thick and neatly stacked.
- It is early Sunday and everything waits.
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