June 1, 2011
I feel strongly evening is my favorite time of day. I’ve always felt this way, even as a kid.
When I was little I remember waiting until the sun began to set to escape to the woods and fields that surrounded my childhood house. I would sprint across the grass with my conspicuously large yellow walkman hooked to my hip, buzzing between “I Can See Clearly Now” and “Dancing Outside the Fire,” (both which are the acme of inspirational ballads for a small child.) Sock-footed, I would dance around our front yard with my arms up in the air, as if to hurry the night in coming.
It was here I discovered sometimes, as the sun retreats from the sky, the day is reborn for a few brief moments. First the heat of the day softens, then the air cools and slows. But even as the breeze sharpens, the earth continues to radiate the day’s heat, upward, like a sigh—warm and fragrant. The sky floods with every possible shade of blue, then green, then gold, then purple. Light shines more tenderly, illuminating a richness in everything it touches, until the world becomes entirely saturated in twilight. The day shakes off its afternoon dust and is invigorated. Dusk becomes another dawn fresh with fresh possibility and magic. As a kid, it was evenings like these I experience with absolute confidence the knowledge that world is a good and happy place.
Not my back yard, but still a cute picture of my sister and me when we were little.
One such evening descended upon me a week or so ago, when I found myself in the high-walled garden of Zumba, a Saint-Louisian actor and musician famous around town. Zumba, himself was absent, but his shaded patio is always host to his band’s practice sessions, and thus the de facto meeting spot for the group of musicians I was sitting with. I had been invited to his house by Christina, a German volunteer I’d met at the NGO where I work. In spite of our short acquaintance, she’d asked me to come help write and perform a song for an independent film she is making about women in Senegal. I’ve been nursing my creative side recently, I happily accepted.
As evening broke, practice digressed into an impromptu recital of every Norah Jones song known to Ngam, the guitarist. The group hummed and clapped along, but, being the only one who really spoke English, the job of singing fell to me—something I don’t do especially well, but something I really enjoy doing. I was relaxed and the audience was so friendly I overcame any self-consciousness, and was able to really enjoy myself. In fact, you might even say I was belting…as much as one can belt Norah Jones.
The heat of the day was giving way to a cool, salty breeze, which made the fuchsia bogenvelia tremble against the garden wall and the air come alive with the scent of soft earth and citrus trees. I looked out into the ebbing light, and was overcome with a sense of wonder—not only at the beauty around me but also the beautiful, unexpected way my life keeps unfolding. What a beautiful life I seem to have stumbled into…
The thing that most impressed me was how entirely unplanned that evening was. Unlike so many other chapters in my life, I had very little part in constructing this life in St. Louis. It grew up around me. Yes, I joined the Peace Corps expecting adventure, but I never set out with the slightest inclination I would move three times, be evacuated from my first post, move somewhere new, meet a bohemian German independent film maker and help her write a song at her friend’s house. The evacuation had all the agony of an end, none of the excitement of a beginning. Our forced departure seemed to violently truncate so many wonderful possibilities of adventures friendships that it felt like death—the death of the life I had lived for nearly two years. And recently, I’ve spent so much time sorting through that wreckage and lamenting the possibilities I’d left behind, imagine my surprise when I looked up to find a new life growing around me. But there I was, watching as the seams of reality quiver under the enormous joy I felt. Even if prompted, two years ago, I could never have imagined the scene before me.
But here I am, with my unexpected German filmmaker friend, and I’m so happy. My initial, rather uncomfortable adjustment to Senegal has passed. My days have fallen into an easy routine of work and leisurely spontaneity. In the mornings, I go to work. In the afternoons, I go to the beach, go to a friend’s house for lunch and conversation. I get ice cream and sit on a bench that overlooks the river. I go for long runs. I get artisanal cocktails and pizza with other volunteers at this cute French-run bar. I feel free and full enough that I don’t mind staying out late on weeknights, I don’t worry about money, and am able to laugh off the cultural differences that once might have ruined my day. Of course, I still have bad days. I am not immune to crankiness or fatigue. Worst of all, I am plagued with the very serious task of figuring out how best to spend my last 24 vacation days. But…I’m very happy and I didn’t even have to plan it.
All of you very sane, well-adjusted, Zen people out there are thinking, “Of course you can’t plan happiness, silly Bruce.” But I’m here to tell you my insane, mal-adjusted id/false self/mind (whatever you want to call it) will argue to the bitter end that all good things are planned. I know; it’s stupid. I get it (Bruce says placing especial, exasperated stress on the “I.”) In fact, I’m constantly espousing little tidbits about how unhealthy/impossible it is to try and control everything. BUT, the subconscious programming constantly running in background of my life says, “You can’t trust the world. Nothing good will happen unless you make it happen.”
I didn’t even notice this thought in my head until a book brought it to my attention. (Actually, there are lots of these really crazy little thoughts we don’t even know we are thinking, but still act on. For example, we might think, I don’t want to share the cake I’m going to eat the WHOLE THING or I want to be the only one who can make so-and-so happy.) But these faults in our programming are eventually brought to our attention and after hearing something we know to be true, our hearts won’t let us forget it.
So, I admit it. I am a control freak, constantly trying to bully joy into my life, to come when I say and to STAND STILL. But no matter how much energy I exert, the things that I imagine will make me happy never seem to line up. So I spend my time trying to will things into being, chasing hopeless dead ends, or lamenting what seem like lost chances at happiness.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t work for the things we want, I’m still pursuing a certain kind of career, lifestyle and relationships. But looking at all the unexpected turns my life has taken recently, I see that joy sneaks up on you when you least expect it, though it may be disguised in unfamiliar clothes. So, considering all the unexpected people/places/opportunities that are currently pouring joy into my life, I get the sense that perhaps it’s wiser to keep putting one foot in front of the other and just let things happen…because…let’s face it things happen anyway.
