eleven minutes with antonio

my ipod can usually figure out what i need to hear. i hit shuffle and it takes over. this morning we had to work together... neither of us knew what fit. finally, the second movement of vivaldi's spring (largo) accompanied the lyrics playing out around and inside me as i sat in queen's park. 11:33 of beauty.

the green paint of the picnic table peels away to let me read the carved initials. there's a spray-painted stenciled prayer: "love and wisdom to you." i echo the request and take my seat. joggers and busses and traffic and a man sitting on a bench 50 meters away, rocking. the dark tree trunks speak of a depth and richness i long for. so real, so concrete. their limbs spread overhead, a symphony of green. peaking through, a sky that glows with blue and white. so good. so very, very good.

vivaldi didn't include wind rushing through drying leaves in his orchestration, to say nothing of the rumble of the subway underfoot. i'm not sure he'd object, though. do the vibrations of the subway affect the trees here, i wonder? every three minutes or so, the roots dance, for better or for worse. are they stronger for it? or do they long for stability and stillness?

strange how a piece about spring fits so well with fall... especially on a university campus. fresh starts: new friends, new lessons, potential that just makes you ache. i think about how i love the smell of autumn, but realize it's the smell of decay. "but," i reflect, "it's death that paves the way for new life." maybe Christian spirituality is about choosing that death over the other kind - the kind that sticks.

do i use the word "beauty" too often? should i guard it so it becomes more sacred, more meaningful? thing is, i don't want to fail to recognize that which *is* truly beautiful... what if God is in the ordinary and life is beautiful and i love being soaked by rain and having the wind play with my skirt and imagining that i am not alone, after all? what if "sacred" doesn't mean "rare"?

i think about what i'm thinking about. how i'd write it. are we really who we are when we write? why am i not like this when i order my london fog or shop for shoes or run for the bus?

sigh.

i let my hair fall on my shoulders and watch and listen and rumble with the subway. i wrestle with impatience. i wonder if there will be a time in my life when this is a priority: when sitting and being (except without thinking so much about it) will come naturally and frequently. when i'll have someone to sit beside. but no talking. just being.

i've only ever shared a moment like that with one person. under a full, smokey moon, we stood, humbled and silent. maybe sharing wonder is the height of intimacy. not talking about it later, like i do here, but living it, together.