Among the Living

As I was lying in bed two weeks ago, wickedly sick with the flu, I felt this incredible sense of isolation. Isolated from human contact, daily activities, from fresh air and motion, I felt so stagnant. I vowed to myself that I would really get out more once I recovered. With a brand new camera sitting on my desk, begging to be used (yes, I finally broke down and bought a Canon EOS Digital Rebel), I devised a plan. I determined that each weekend I will make a day trip someplace within about a two hour drive. I will only take my camera, a book, and things to write with. Wherever I go, I will enjoy my surroundings and read, write, and photograph. I also decided to get out more in general and just go do things that I often think about doing but never actually do. I'm really accustomed to doing things alone and that doesn't really bother me at all but I guess I so often find myself doing the same limited things out of routine or feeling less inclined to try new things because the experience is not shared. Yet, as was reiterated to me this weekend, participating in life is always a shared event.

 

So, I woke up on Saturday morning and drove to the beach. I was fully anticipating a very wet and gray day. I was more than happy with the drive itself and the thought of sitting in a coffee shop or at an overlook in my car, writing and reading. But when I arrived at the beach, the clouds parted somewhat and the sun emerged. The day was incredible. I walked up and down the quiet main street, walked down to the beach, and in and out of bookstores and art galleries. I indulged a pancake craving that I had sustained while sick and later, sat on a bench and enjoyed a vanilla latte while writing and watching passers-by. It was such a great day. I felt so completely at ease and still. Time was of no issue. I wasn't in a hurry to get there, frantically passing cars where possible. Instead, I felt utterly at leisure. I stopped and photographed some huge uprooted trees from a recent storm and was happy to see the promise of spring in blooming daffodils at the beach:

On Sunday, I walked down to watch the Oregon State Beavers baseball team play Georgia here in the city. Again, the day proved to be beautiful, the sun was pleasantly warm on my face. I realized how much I missed sitting in a baseball park and I relished the experience further with a hot dog and beer. I sat four rows up between third base and home plate. Two couples in their late 40s sat next to me and their four sons sat in front of them. One of the wives noticed that I was sitting alone and inquired if my friends had abandoned me. I smiled and told her that I came alone. She quickly moved her coat from the seat between us and told me to join them. She introduced me to her husband and friends and then the four adorable boys. The wives and I chatted during the game, talking about the city, their lives as parents, and their general feelings about watching their sons grow into little men. The boys all high-fived me when the Beavers scored or made a great play. The husbands apparently had a Little League meeting that evening and the wives giggled as they plotted their evening together at home with the boys and a pitcher of margaritas. It felt strangely comforting to be a part of their lives for a few innings of a baseball game.

 

When I was getting my hot dog and beer at the concession stand, a former neighbor of mine from college was standing in front of me. We lived in the dorms next door to each other when I returned to grad school. He was a freshman then and would often burn CDs and movies for me and I would listen to some of his frustrations and offer encouragement. After the game, walking home, I also ran into a friend I knew in grad school over three years ago. He and I had several Sociology classes together and often engaged in great conversations about social issues and making a difference in this world. I was happy to hear that despite having a full time job as an electrician, he leaves work almost every day during the week and goes to a children's center for a few hours, working with severely troubled kids.

 

So, despite getting out and doing these things alone, I felt incredibly connected to everyone around me, not just those two people I ran into from college. Even people who passed by me on the main street, the bride and groom being photographed on the beach, the teenage couple that sat nearby during the game... they all lent to that feeling of being connected, regardless of the fact that I did not exchange words with many of them.

 

I felt a sense of hope as I participated more fully in life this weekend. I felt hopeful about the possibility of having a family of my own one day and sitting at a baseball game with them, hopeful about being a writer, hopeful about humanity. I could see the goodness in everyone and everything around me. This hope didn't accelerate a sense of longing for those things, however. Instead, it revealed that everything comes in its due time. When we try to force things, that's when we find ourselves frustrated, unable, limited, and often when we feel like we've failed. Opportunities will present themselves when they are right. And if we are patient and open, we will recognize those opportunities and enter into them, ready. The daffodils I photographed above are a testament to this. They return every spring, often surprising us by emerging before expected. They emerge and reemerge in due time. And they are lovelier for such.