Most mornings find me tightly bound to my blanket, ignoring every one of my three rise-and-shine alarms.
I read once (in one of my favorite novels growing up, Spinelli’s Stargirl) that we are most alive, most human in those first moments after waking up. I find some truth in the idea, particularly after I’ve woken up from a strange dream.
But honestly, isn’t life itself a strange dream?
Maybe the product of a brilliant, boundless imaginative writer. The universe’s conception from nothing takes my breath away; I seldom think about it for if I did, I’d need to stock up on oxygen.
And don’t get me started on how destruction and creation coexist… dangling mysteries and reality.
While these years of higher education have put some distance between myself and a dear-God, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a bit of holy in daily life that I’ve stopped noticing.
A few weeks ago, I sat at my balcony and watched the wind blow dandelions seeds. Scattered. Slow-moving bits. Floating up, as if to no end.
Watching seed by seed pass me by, I was reminded of a classmate reading an autobiographical piece over a year ago. She described making wishes upon dandelions seeds as a child. The way in which she described the moment… like it was very much alive in her memory struck me.
I thought then, as I do now, where have those fond memories of mine gone?
Today, as I walked out of class to a glowing, half hidden moon, I kept thinking: I wouldn’t have seen such a night as a kid. I wouldn’t have been allowed to walk myself home if the moon was up.
I don’t give it much thought, but it’s so thrilling to grow up. And it’s terrifying. In my final year as a teen (nineteen), I find that I’m not only growing older…
I’m growing younger. It’s a thought hard to pin down, but I’ve seen so many adult-child’s, that I know well enough:
life and death,
youth and old age,
are close friends.