The windshield wipers swished back and forth with what I thought of as panicked alacrity. I'd turned them up to as fast as they would go, and still the torrential rain made it almost impossible to see more than the two faint red embers of the taillights of the car in front of me. We were on the freeway and had slowed to about 40 miles per hour. It was like the washing machine world had leaked and flooded the basement from above with relish. I resisted the urge to pull over and leap around by the side of the road...the thrill of being drenched through in a matter of seconds would probably wear off once I had to get back in the car and drive for another 20 minutes in sopping wet clothes. I really dislike waterlogged socks.
As I rounded a bend in the road the rain pounded down even harder and everything was terrifyingly blurry.
I make that drive almost every day, from where I work downtown to where I'm living this summer, and every single time it's different. Sometimes, when I come back late at night and my eyelids are drooping with weariness, the only thing I really notice is the lyrics to a radio ballad that reminds me of a certain person, or the warning glint of a deer's eyes along the side of the road. Sometimes my mind is preoccupied to the point of numbness or just impatient to get from point A to point B.
Times of self-imposed blurriness.
Other times are like visual awakenings, when I suddenly notice what I've never registered before.
Like the way the light plays over the greens and blues of the evergreen forests in the distance, evoking operatic scenes of Das Rheingold from Wagner's Ring cycle. Or the way the mustard plants overtaking the side of the road are trying so hard to assert their yellow presence on the drab of the highway. Or the way that people in the passengers' seats stare wistfully out their windows, like they've just endured the brunt of heartbreak.
But even these things are passing moments of light and shadow, never repeated in exactly the same way and never to be noticed in exactly the same way.
When I passed by the lake yesterday, the sun had finally peeked timidly out from behind the more assertive rainclouds on its way to setting and the water was tranquil in the almost-twilight. Half the world was in focus -- the trees above the water, the voluptuous forms of the clouds, the lakeside houses -- and the other half was a blurry upside-down version of the first half. And it was all excruciatingly lovely.
And I was glad that I'd taken a mental pause to notice it all, all the details that I passed by every day.
I remember when I was on the train in Germany, headed from Stuttgart to Frankfurt. It was the first lag of my journey home after having been gone over four months. My heart was heavy and my ears were stoppered with headphones playing Sondre Lerche's It's Over on repeat. I was sitting with my back towards the direction the train was moving.
Almost everything was a blur. The German countryside, my mental checklist of what to keep track of during the journey, my thoughts of how to attempt a gracious and dignified parting with this particular adventure.
Within my line of sight, an elderly German gentleman was reading a book. The cover was graced with happy photographs of aged couples hand in hand and grinning. From what I could understand of the title, the book's content had something to do with love stories and humor. Every so often my elderly gentleman would break out into a smile or silent laughter. Then he'd readjust his glasses and smooth his shirtfront, but the mirth stayed in his eyes. I loved watching him, and a smile of my own broke out on my face. When I had to get off the train he helped me dislodge my portly little suitcase from where it had gotten stuck in the bahn's aisle way.
For whatever reason, my eyes focused on that elderly man's face -- a pocket of defined detail in an overwhelming blur.
Yesterday, in my favorite bookstore, I came upon a little book called Missed Connections. I turned to one of Sophie Blackall's illustrations of Missed Connections posts, where strangers seek strangers in seemingly irrelevant noticed details and in the what ifs of love, regret, and hope. I thought the idea was brilliant.
There were illustrations of posts like, "LONG CURLY BROWN HAIR ON THE Q: You had pink fingernails and got on the Q train at Atlantic...I felt an irrational desire to invite you out to dinner. I found you stunningly beautiful, but you'll probably never know..." and "ICE SKATING IN CENTRAL PARK WE COLLIDED: You had on a furry hat with ear flaps and you crashed into me @ Wollman Rink today. You are a terrible but adorable skater." I turned to another illustration, and another. "KNITTING GIRL ON 7 TRAIN TO SUNNYSIDE: ...You were one of the warmest people I've met on a subway at 2 a.m., and a reminder why I love this city."
I bought the book at once.
Maybe we go about our lives in too much blurriness. No matter how bad our eyesight might be, I don't think we should ever underestimate the delicate joy of noticed details, the charming that peeps out from behind the commonplace. You can find something enchanting even in the routine.
As I rounded a bend in the road the rain pounded down even harder and everything was terrifyingly blurry.
I make that drive almost every day, from where I work downtown to where I'm living this summer, and every single time it's different. Sometimes, when I come back late at night and my eyelids are drooping with weariness, the only thing I really notice is the lyrics to a radio ballad that reminds me of a certain person, or the warning glint of a deer's eyes along the side of the road. Sometimes my mind is preoccupied to the point of numbness or just impatient to get from point A to point B.
Times of self-imposed blurriness.
Other times are like visual awakenings, when I suddenly notice what I've never registered before.
Like the way the light plays over the greens and blues of the evergreen forests in the distance, evoking operatic scenes of Das Rheingold from Wagner's Ring cycle. Or the way the mustard plants overtaking the side of the road are trying so hard to assert their yellow presence on the drab of the highway. Or the way that people in the passengers' seats stare wistfully out their windows, like they've just endured the brunt of heartbreak.
But even these things are passing moments of light and shadow, never repeated in exactly the same way and never to be noticed in exactly the same way.
When I passed by the lake yesterday, the sun had finally peeked timidly out from behind the more assertive rainclouds on its way to setting and the water was tranquil in the almost-twilight. Half the world was in focus -- the trees above the water, the voluptuous forms of the clouds, the lakeside houses -- and the other half was a blurry upside-down version of the first half. And it was all excruciatingly lovely.
And I was glad that I'd taken a mental pause to notice it all, all the details that I passed by every day.
I remember when I was on the train in Germany, headed from Stuttgart to Frankfurt. It was the first lag of my journey home after having been gone over four months. My heart was heavy and my ears were stoppered with headphones playing Sondre Lerche's It's Over on repeat. I was sitting with my back towards the direction the train was moving.
Almost everything was a blur. The German countryside, my mental checklist of what to keep track of during the journey, my thoughts of how to attempt a gracious and dignified parting with this particular adventure.
Within my line of sight, an elderly German gentleman was reading a book. The cover was graced with happy photographs of aged couples hand in hand and grinning. From what I could understand of the title, the book's content had something to do with love stories and humor. Every so often my elderly gentleman would break out into a smile or silent laughter. Then he'd readjust his glasses and smooth his shirtfront, but the mirth stayed in his eyes. I loved watching him, and a smile of my own broke out on my face. When I had to get off the train he helped me dislodge my portly little suitcase from where it had gotten stuck in the bahn's aisle way.
For whatever reason, my eyes focused on that elderly man's face -- a pocket of defined detail in an overwhelming blur.
Yesterday, in my favorite bookstore, I came upon a little book called Missed Connections. I turned to one of Sophie Blackall's illustrations of Missed Connections posts, where strangers seek strangers in seemingly irrelevant noticed details and in the what ifs of love, regret, and hope. I thought the idea was brilliant.
There were illustrations of posts like, "LONG CURLY BROWN HAIR ON THE Q: You had pink fingernails and got on the Q train at Atlantic...I felt an irrational desire to invite you out to dinner. I found you stunningly beautiful, but you'll probably never know..." and "ICE SKATING IN CENTRAL PARK WE COLLIDED: You had on a furry hat with ear flaps and you crashed into me @ Wollman Rink today. You are a terrible but adorable skater." I turned to another illustration, and another. "KNITTING GIRL ON 7 TRAIN TO SUNNYSIDE: ...You were one of the warmest people I've met on a subway at 2 a.m., and a reminder why I love this city."
I bought the book at once.
Maybe we go about our lives in too much blurriness. No matter how bad our eyesight might be, I don't think we should ever underestimate the delicate joy of noticed details, the charming that peeps out from behind the commonplace. You can find something enchanting even in the routine.
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