A Brightness

This is the way it is: You walk along feeling reasonably engaged in the present, looking at things, just being in the world...and then something terribly sad appears in your head and you're suddenly not here anymore. You feel that if you tried to talk, it would just come out in sobs, and you certainly don't want to unleash all of that, so you stay quiet and wait for it to pass. And it does pass, until the next time.The other day we went to Brighton, an old coastal town in East Sussex. Our primary mission was to visit a woman who sells vintage wedding dresses, but it was also a pleasant expedition, and we conveniently still had our rental car. We had a leisurely drive and arrived around lunchtime. We sat by the steamy window of a little café watching the motley procession of tourists and locals hurrying by, and the song Sugar Man was playing, and there were aromas of hot tea and roasted butternut squash and bread fresh from the oven. There was a comforting murmur of conversation, and a clarity of color and light and beautiful prosaic life.

"Everything is so intense," I said.Monte looked at me skeptically, maybe a little worried. "Isn't that what people used to say after they dropped acid?"

"But that's not how I mean it," I said. "It's just..."

And I couldn't really explain. Life comes over me in waves sometimes, bringing with it a fusion of heartache and wonder that almost leaves me gasping.  There's so much to take in, so much to appreciate, so much to bear, so much to reconcile and fathom and accept.

We walked along the waterfront, a pebbled beach, nearly deserted, empty benches facing the sea, the charred remnants of a Victorian pier in the distance. There were even a few stand-up paddle boarders out there, reminding us of home.Then we found our way to the wedding dress lady, and I watched my daughter try on dresses, each with a story of its own, and she was lovely and hopeful, and I sat squarely in the moment, from whence I looked forward instead of back.