Writing this on Saturday morning. (times posted on my computer seem to be inaccurate). Some thoughts over the past couple of days are wanting to be recorded.
As a kid, I learned to shut out a lot of my world. I'm not completely sure why that happened; maybe it was easier to immerse myself in a book, or at the piano, than to hear and see things around me that reminded me of the clash between my dreams and a sometimes harsh reality. The strange thing was that, even when playing the piano, I could spend hours without really hearing myself. What I heard was what I wanted to hear, not what was actually coming from the keys. There are benefits to that skill. For example, I can remain sane in a room full of beginner band kids warming up with the variety of sounds that most go through as they learn their way around their instruments. There are also consequences; a lot of really good stuff gets missed. Observing my day in order to write this blog has caused the smallest things to keep jumping out at me as though they are brand new, and I guess, in a way, they are. And my ears seem to be going along for the ride, picking up details I wouldn't have noticed before.
So, time can be a frustration. I cycle along, see or hear something, want to stop, and can't, if I'm to make it to work on time. Thursday was like that. I saw the man walking his cat again. Since posting about them about a month ago, they hadn't appeared again, and I had begun to wonder if they were real at all. When I saw them, my feet slowed hopefully, and I had to force myself to follow the pedals forward. The man was standing at the corner, watching the cat and waiting for it to catch up. The cat was eying him with a "don't rush me" sort of glare, but in my few seconds of ride-by time, I thought I saw a perfect relationship there. I only hope I'll have an opportunity to meet them one day when I haven't cut my time so close.
The ride continued like that. In spite of the dull weather, a tangerine light playing over the Granville Bridge caught my eye from the Burrard Bridge. A cyclist smiled as I waited at the light at Pacific and Burrard. A pair of seagulls were magnificent in a swirling air-dance at the corner of Beach and Denman. It somehow seemed like a ride of missed opportunities.
Later that afternoon, just before the jazz rehearsal, I stepped outside and caught these images.
I felt something incredible was coming, but had to go inside. As we rehearsed, a hint of golden light drifted across the cafeteria and managed to sneak just a tiny bit of its glow past the music room windows - no small feat. I saw it first, and thought I must be dreaming. Then one of the kids asked about the yellow light. In all the time I've been teaching at this school, I have never heard a student remark on the light. I wanted to run out with my camera, but didn't. Later, people told me about the rainbow and magic sky that had lasted for only a few minutes. Bill saw it from Point Grey when he was walking Black Jack. I love rainbows and have only seen a few in my life. I don't know. Greedy, perhaps, to want to suck up every picture. Perhaps, the now is in the writing of it - a pleasure as well.
Thursday evening was one of only three times in my four years of bike commutes that I have had to walk my bike across the Lions Gate Bridge. I like to think of myself as strong, but wind effortlessly shakes that foundation of confidence. Even walking, I had to brace myself in a triangle line away from the bike, both elbows locked as I gripped the handlebars, wind filling my mouth in gulps as I tried to breathe.
This last picture I took on Friday. Trees, as seen through the railings of the Lions Gate. Tall and thin and reaching to find light. They remind me of kids forced to line up when what they want is to roam to their own space.
A lazy Saturday morning, and I've fallen into my habit of leaving time down to the crunch. Must walk Black Jack, go to school for a rehearsal, and maybe find a little gym time. Tonight, Bill and I will go to the Orpheum to hear Dee Daniels. A good day ahead.