The weight of reality compressed every dream, well-wish, good humor and high spirited venture this week. Five days of being anchored down, huddled up and closed off–on both the national landscape and what seemed to me, everyone’s personal lives, where energy was being filtered through and funneled toward only the most necessary things. Nothing was spared for the luxuries of tomorrow. Everything was presently purposeful for whatever needed to get done. The focus was sharp, but the clarity in the aftermath was a cloud of exhaust.
I tend to use my Saturdays and Sundays to bookend weeks like these, as the granite blocks or marble art that keep everything from falling apart. Waking up on the weekends in places different from the night before is sometimes the best rest for me now. I am drawn to these contextual differences in places, knowing they change content: in people, food, language, tea cups and weather. Even the sounds are magnificent.
It’s good to be impressed by these things, if for no other reason, than to crack open your rib cage with fresh perspective. Don’t fret over the competing rhythms of what you know and what you have yet to make sense of. Reason is not the point, and assigning logic at this stage in the game will only hinder the enjoyment of the current story. Now is not the time to tell it anyway. So forget about causation. It is not the Why that matters. The shortest distance between two places is not a straight line, it is a stone you skip when you are not concerned with how far it travels.
It is the What: every moment of impact has infinite ripples across time. I’ll meet you there on the weekends, after I wake up in sunlight without wonder for why it has risen, but instead grateful for the simple fact it is there.