A Moment in Time

The weather forecasters predict today will be another of those late Winter days when Spring attempts to burst through the wreckage of the previous season. They forecast the day will start clear and cool—temperatures in the low 40s—and will finish just as clear, but warming to the upper 60s or low 70s. I can attest to the fact that the temperature at this early hour—5:30—is, in fact very cool and comfortable; about 43°F.  The light of day has yet to begin to spill from the horizon, so the sky remains dark except for the dim light of hundreds or thousands of stars. When I stepped outside a while ago and looked up at the sky, I felt that sense of childhood awe for a few moments; that sense of intense wonder at the extent of the wide universe beyond our tiny place in it. That’s what into a night sky does for me, even when the glow of nearby communities pollutes the darkness with dim, almost invisible light. Looking skyward, I am struck by the stunning beauty above us. And even when the star lights are dim, like this morning, I recall how brilliant and crisp the stars look—and  how many millions I think I see—when I have been far, far away from the lights of “civilization.” Places like Big Bend National Park and isolated beaches on the big island of Hawai’i and the empty plains of Kansas. Everywhere I’ve ever been…if I am far enough away from bright or numerous lights…a clear night sky is among the most mesmerizing experiences I can hope for. Perhaps recalling those experiences is part of the reason I find seclusion and isolation and desolate places so compelling; so magnetic and fulfilling.

Last night, as we watched another few episodes of Yellowstone (already into season 3), I imagined what the night sky would be like on the Dutton Yellowstone ranch. I suspect it would be very much like the skies I fell in love with when I was in Big Bend and Hawai’i and Kansas and a few other places where nighttime delivered a gift of almost absolute darkness, punctuated only by the tiny twinkling lights of more stars than I could possibly count.  Looking at a dark, dark, dark night sky is an incredibly moving experience for me; it delivers for me a serenity sense of both safety and vulnerability that are at once incompatible and perfectly matched. Odd, that. I suspect believers in religious stories look to emotional experiences triggered by the night sky as evidence of their beliefs. From my perspective, the night sky offers evidence that those stories are simply that—stories. As I see it, the awe inspired by the darkest night skies is much bigger and more powerful than any that could be inspired by belief in a supernatural being.

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Back on Earth, work continued on the new house yesterday. A guy came out to measure for the glass door/wall for the master bath shower. The walls of the master bath, where the old jetted tub was removed, were patched; today, they will be textured. I painted a small area of the master bath with a light grey paint; later, my girlfriend took a look at it and gave it her approval. I will repaint the walls, which earlier I had painted beige, with the grey paint. The grey paint is a much better match with the newly-tiled shower that was the beige—which was a good match for the old, now gone, shower. I do not mind repainting the bathroom, as I think it will contribute to a stunning, modern look to the master bath. When it’s all finished, I think the house will be worth the effort.  Not worth the money, perhaps, but worth the effort.

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Late yesterday afternoon, on a whim while we were out on an errand and a sightseeing drive, we stopped for dinner at a nice little Italian restaurant in the Village. It’s a small place not far from our new house. The owner is almost always there and he circulates among tables, thanking patrons for their business and making small talk. He’s a nice guy, at least he seems that way from my limited interactions with him during several visits to the place over the past few years. Last night, my girlfriend complimented him on his t-shirt, the back of which was imprinted in big, bold letters with “Legalize Marinara!” The waitstaff at this restaurant is always professional, cordial, and attentive, which reflects the owners’ training and staff selection practices. Other—most—restaurants in the area would do well by learning this guy’s secrets and putting them into practice in their own places of business.

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A couple of days ago, a friend returned from a Norwegian cruise to the Arctic Circle. Viewing her Facebook  posts, some of which included images of the Aurora Borealis, sparked a renewed interest in travel to that part of the world. Norway has always been on my wish list of places I would like to visit. I look forward to hearing my friend talk about her experiences and what she saw; and, perhaps, seeing more photos of the places she visited.

Thinking of travel spurred me to retrieve memories of my trip to France a few years ago. My late wife and I joined my sister on a roughly ten-day Road Scholar tour to Provence in the south of France (Marseille, Avignon, Aix-en-Provence, Arles, the Camargue, etc.). Afterward, the brother who lives in Mexico and his wife, along with the brother who lives north of  Houston joined us at a villa in Cabrières-d’Avignon. My sister arranged to rent the villa to celebrate her seventieth birthday. Both the formal Road Scholar tour and the subsequent excursions, using the villa as a home base (and, of course, the time at the villa itself) were extraordinarily memorable experiences. I would love to go back there. My girlfriend and I talked yesterday about the possibility of one day making a similar trip, inviting my sister to join us. It occurs to me that “one day” would have to be soon; all of us are approaching the last few years of the time available to us.

Travel to places where the cultures are different from our own tends to expand one’s view of the world. It broadens one’s horizons and demands we abandon insularity and arrogance. No matter how much one “loves” one’s home country, there always are places “better” in some ways; places one automatically admires because they are different from what we are used to experiencing. We become more open and welcoming and less self-important. Travel opens our eyes and our minds. And, for those of us fortunate to reap the benefits of living in the USA, travel makes us appreciate what we have and makes us more willing to share it with people whose lives would be made better by having what we have.  From my personal perspective, travel also has made me feel embarrassed for our abundance and ashamed of our arrogance; often, travel has led me to want to live someplace else where human dignity is more valued than wealth and prosperity.

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Despite being in the final phases of completing renovations to our new house, lately I’ve been feeling increasingly drawn to a nomadic life. While having a home base is a comforting concept, the idea of being tied to a place disturbs me. Maybe my restlessness is a temporary thing; I’ve felt it before and it has dissipated. But it feels different and strong. Yet as I age at astonishing speed, I suppose a nomadic lifestyle might become too taxing. But being chained to a mortgage may be even more onerous and stressful. If I could forecast with relative precision how long I will live (in possession of my ability to get around on my own), I think I would spend my money accordingly, so that my last penny would be spent as I took my last breath. I would invest in experiences, instead of “things.” “Things,” in many respects, are substitutes for joy. They take the place of experiences. While they may bring temporary comfort or satisfaction, “things” are like addictive narcotics; they must be replaced and replenished with more, more, more in order to deliver the same high.

God, I’m really rambling. I must stop. I have to prepare for a full day of making preparations; taking actions to attach my ball and chain to my ankle so I will be unable ever to leave my cell. A bit dramatic, perhaps, but reflective of my attitude at one single moment in time on this Wednesday morning.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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