* * * *

He wondered what it all meant. ‘If the skies and the trees and the waves and the wind are the medium for the message, then what should I be taking from this?’ he pondered as a few giant drops of rain began to appear on the windshield. ‘I understand simple sunny weather, and I understand chaotic, destructive windstorms, but this is too beautiful to understand.’ His eyes drifted back and forth, attempting to soak in the sky as much as he could, while ensuring the white and yellow remained an equal distance from each wheel. The day had become another for the memory banks. ‘How many days have to go by before another like this will occur?’ he asked himself. ‘How often will I be given the chance to feel alive, in the monotonous discontent of suburb life?’

* * * *

Writing is freedom. It is a way to remember. It’s a tool to increase vocabulary. It’s a method to improve spelling, in a world dependent on [spell check]. Writing is a way to communicate when photographs aren’t available. Writing is a way to say what can’t be spoken, to pen what hasn’t been considered. It’s a way to evoke emotion, in both the writer, and the reader. It’s a way to relax, to put oneself at ease, to enjoy ones own company.

* * * *

Float above the world in a hot air balloon.
Run at least one marathon. Any one. Anywhere.
Climb to the top of a snow-capped mountain.
Live out of a suitcase for at least 6 months.
Canoe through a lake, a creek, or a river in the wilderness.
Jump out of a plane, parachute ready.
Enjoy a sunrise at least once a week during the summer.

* * * *

A free, live, open-air performance by the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra at the natural amphitheatre in Deer Lake Park. A blanket, some food, a deck of cards, a good friend, and beautiful summer weather. A hive of children; bright colours writhing and dancing over a spherical jungle gym. Clouds turning from blue to pink to orange to purple. Dogs panting, classical music echoing off the trees, the hillside, the thousands of fellow park guests.

Life is good. And I’m thankful.

* * * *

I’ve noticed that if there’s one thing that potentially sets me apart from most other people i know, it’s the ability to recognize moments as they’re forming, and to cherish and enjoy those moments to the fullest of my ability before they’re gone. I can be driving home from work and see pieces falling into place.. a full moon with soft foggy clouds nearby, the road leading up to the suspension bridge. I feel the moment coming. The clouds move into position, the bridge supports and cables, quickly approaching to frame the image, glow in the dim orange light cast from the street lights. One or two cars speed past on the right and left, and lights from the industrial island sparkle in the background. SMACK there it is. The world stops. Physical existence becomes inconsequential. Even consciousness itself passes into the background as the imagery before my eyes burns directly into my soul and brings it to life. I am consumed in the moment. I am the moment.

* * * *

Normal.
Progress.
Fun.
Change.

Subjective.

* * * *

When he was young, he thought he was special. Special in the way only a handful of people in history have been. In other words, he had the same thoughts as almost everyone else has had at one point or another. He slowly grew older, and came to realize that he was no more or less special than any other human on earth. He was simply different. Unique. For better or worse, he would be an individual. It wasn’t for a few more years that he began to realize that this is not something to be sad about, but rather a way to become a fully realized adult with talents, hobbies, interests, experiences, and a personality that seem to have no correlation to each other in any way. He wondered how he would ever find someone odd enough, intelligent enough, and attractive enough to be a reciprocal match. That is, until he realized he could find his match in simple interaction with others. Or by experiencing art, in any form it may take. Or by listening to the stories and memories of those he encounters, and sharing in their dreams. Becoming alive in their joy.

* * * *

Thank you for today. I smile, contemplating how it was we came to meet this warm afternoon, wondering if we’ll ever have the chance to meet again. You may never know the impact you had; simply knowing there is at least one other on this rock who knows how to make use of his/her mind, has given me the comfort to trust humanity just a little bit more. The faith to believe others like you really do exist outside of my imagination.

* * * *

Pulling into the church parking lot, looking across the valley to Mt. Baker in the background.
Finishing a great book with time to sit and think about it.
Turning off the computer.
Sitting at a bus stop, listening to a pleasant chat strike up between strangers.
Enjoying the salty, cool air of a sunset at English Bay.
Falling asleep on the last workday of the week.

* * * *

He speaks through the wind, and the clouds; the rain, and the burning sunlight. His face is hidden in the waves of the ocean, and in the reflections of the city. He knows how best to communicate what He finally needs to say, and He knows that he’s listening. And He knows that he’s ready.