I went a on a walk today. Without intention, I opened the door and followed my bare feet through the driveway and onto the sidewalk. I love the twilight hours of a warm sunny day, when the sky turns to turquoise that subdues the dying fire of orange at its feet. A playful breeze toys at your cheeks, whipping back to tousle your hair. Crickets and frogs join in an indistinguishable chorus--I could never tell which was which.
As I walked, the wind danced with soft maple leaves, who responded with whispers of pleasure. Stars showed their sparkling faces one by one. They reminded me of a dear friend of mine, who used to say that my eyes sparkled as they did. Not with stars, as many had said, but they sparkled as stars themselves. In truth, my eyes radiated the spark of joy that he kindled in me.
It was then that I noticed that I was not walking, but skimming the sidewalk under my feet. Instead of walking heel to toe, my feet dropped forward first. Like a lyrical dancer or a warrior maiden, I walked with grace. Eventually, I decided, I was more like a dancer. For only a dancer would walk with stomach clenched in and hips thrust forward, tensing her core. A warrior would be crouched forward, with her weight light on her feet, not flouncing her presence for all to see.
I have always been a dancer at heart. It is my connection to the strength of joy. Whether I am graceful or not, the feeling of being so tickles me. I walked purposely from then on, feeling the course sidewalk under the balls of my feet, and then my heels.
The moon was almost full, but not quite. My half smile returned; at least it was not cliche.
Have you ever noticed how much a suburban neighborhood resembles a chocolate box? Instead of nestled in plastic and paper, these houses are in beds of fences and asphalt. Their hard outer shell is slathered with dark chocolate browns, raspberry truffle pinks, deep blueberry coating, and many flavors I'm not sure I would set on my tongue. Who appreciates the eye-candy that is the exact color of rusty nails? The thing that separates the two--neighborhoods and a box of chocolates-- is the trusty maple tree planted in the yard, the maple tree with its sighing leaves and their constant affair with the wind.
It was on this walk that I noticed something I had never before understood. A good story is not made of remarkable events, a good story is a compilation of the exciting, yet usual happenstance of life. It is not the emotion of the extreme, but the omission of the dull that makes a story ring. People do not long for impossible insanity, but to evade the mundane.
But when you notice, the fleeting, flirting wind, and see the smiles of the stars, when you treasure the daily dying fires of the horizon, and cherish the feel of rough pavement under your feet, is anything truly mundane?
Normalcy is not a state of being, but a state of mind. Our greatest fear is to miss out on life, to never experience what it means to be more than just here. But I have decided, with a spark in my step, that being just here is perfectly fine.


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I may some day make this a short story...

there are a few of you, my loves, who have yet to read my pride and joy. I RAWR in your general direction.