It's storming all over California today. Between energetic bouts of rain, the wind blows in warm and restless gusts. My heart sings out to this weather--I've loved autumnal rainstorms all my life--but my soul feels worn and tired. I, myself, am as unsettled and groundless as the wind, looking for something to hold on to, waiting for the weather to settle. I'm desperate for change.
It all makes me rather melancholy. Last night the power went out, again, and for some reason I panicked, lying in the dark silence, listening to the wind tapping at the window. I felt alone in a void; not even the soft brush of Cali's hair against my cheek or the deep regular breathing of my husband next to me made me feel any less isolated. I prayed for the power to come back on, for the glow of the bedside lamp and the soft whirr of the ceiling fan.
For some reason all this darkness, of thought and feeling, is making me think back on my life's most contented moments. I sort through them, like a mental stack of photographs, as if looking at them enough will unlock the secret to happiness in my present.
Most of these memories are not extraordinary in and of themselves, they're simple moments, some even mundane, but they each hold a specific feeling of serenity that I would do almost anything to recapture.
Stepping off a curb in front of an antique shop in a little Texas hill country town, the notes of the Stones' "Dead Flowers" drifting on the hot evening air from a dancehall nearby.
Leaning against an overturned boat on a Spanish beach smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and watching the sunrise over the Mediterranean.
Taking a hot shower in the first apartment my husband and I lived in together, and having him bring me a glass of wine.
Driving home from work one evening back in Santa Cruz and seeing the bonfires dotted along the beach.
Making love on white sheets while gauzy curtains blew in the breeze.
I study these moments, trying to put a mental finger on what about them was so exquisite, while other, more outwardly remarkable moments, fell short. I wonder if I will ever learn to be happy.
3 comments:
Your writing is lovely. I exchange long letters with an old friend and recently asked a similar question about happiness. He writes back: "...the moment your restless soul finds contentment, I will be asked to deliver your eulogy three days later. Don't strive so, your restlessness becomes you, and I am not ready to pen my last letter to you yet."
Some of us are meant to search and report back all we have discovered.
Beautiful post. I'm not sure I can add to Heather's comment, which seems to me to get at the heart of the matter. Contentment is not everyone's lot. Weirdly, the more I've come to accept this, the more content I've become.
frances
The other commentors said it well. Wise words here.
If you can find contentment in not being content, I think that is about the best you can do. Look at me, being all post-modern.
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