Finding Momentum

Sometimes you wish you had a camera with you, but I'm glad I don't this time. It's quite picturesque, this view with the Bay Bridge lit by the glittering gold of sky and watery reflected light, framed by the ominous presence of fast-floating rainclouds (with troves and spots and colors of blues, purples and electric pinks). I'm glad there's no camera and no burden to share this moment with anybody.

Sit down and drink it in. Just sit. Let your heart stop pounding, feel the tension bleed from your muscles, drink slowly and deeply.

(Today, I couldn't take it anymore. Six hours at the computer terminal and I couldn't stand it with my legs all jittery and my head whirling with code. So despite the rain, I took a loop about campus and ended up at the campanile steps.)

A brief flash of terror runs through me and I am eight years old again, watching the sunset through approaching rainclouds, kicking pebbles in the rock garden in front of my art teacher's studio. It is approaching seven; my mother is two hours late. I strain at passing cars to make out the shape of the family minivan. I've run out of games, of little rhymes or ditties to sing, and I can't help but feel a fear and despair that is only fully realized by children my age.

(It is seven now and my mother pulls up fast by the curb, apologizing and apologizing over again. I sit silently in the passenger seat and stare straight ahead, holding everything back.)

I wonder how much of that terror I still hold latent in me. Of the unknown, of uncertainty, of waiting and of loneliness. I am certain it is still lurking there, deep in my tissue.

What is this perfect love, that it could cast out all fear? I painted this for you, My son.

I sit and take it in; there is soft rain but the scene remains unchanged.

Let me tell you what he's done for me / Let me tell you what he's done for you / He has done for us

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