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