This I Believe

Puddles

A strong wind blows from the west, lifting my long blond hair above my head, as the air grows cooler with the procession of giant gray clouds. Like ships they travel, sailing through the sea of blue, and in their wake brews a storm. They bring the first drops of spring, winter at their bow and summer at their stern. The trees bend in reverence to their great and terrible power, dropping sacrifices of white blossoms into the wind.

My neighbors scurry in the light sprinkle, collecting odds and ends and shoving them behind the white garage doors. They usher small children inside, flinching as the skies open and the downpour begins, and hurry after them. Every window becomes illuminated by television screens, casting blue light onto the street and boldly displaying the silhouettes of occupied couches in the dark afternoon.

The world rumbles.

I lay on my trampoline,

Rain soaking the tarp.

I believe in living. I do not hide from reality. It is all too easy to turn on the TV, grab a beer and a bag of chips, and forget to live. Forget you can. It is far too common a fate to overlook the elegance and majesty inherent in the cosmos; never experiencing the joy of searching for understanding within it and allowing your eyes to become a mirror to the vastness of perfect beauty.

I pick up my guitar, when it’s all over, and play about rain, accompanied only by the roll of distant thunder. There is no better way to live.

This, I believe.