When I watched this video today, I felt so much. My reaction was visceral and more profound than anything I've felt for an exceptionally long time. Perhaps ever. Sitting with my love at our dining room table, bearing witness via YouTube, tears streaming down our cheeks - it made for an incredible Sunday morning. I may write more about my reaction later, but for now, I'll simply hold this out as a humble offering. Maybe it will move you too.
Something else that moved me: Waking up early on Tuesday morning, the first day of the bar exam, padding into the kitchen to turn on the gas fireplace and make coffee, glancing out the sliding glass door, and seeing a beautiful bouquet of flowers, left for me by an incredible friend at 5am. I love to feel love.
Beautiful flowers, from a beautiful friend, at the most beautiful (in my mind) time of day.
In my childhood neighborhood, there was a boy whose name was Steve. He was the eldest of five, and called "Stevie." In some ways he seemed so childlike, even at sixteen.
He rocked, back and forth, standing or sitting. He hummed and sang and loved to play the piano, and a zither, in a way that annoyed his siblings. He said a few words we understood: apple, bike ride, fig newton, outside, outside, outside. He was always saying, "outside," but, you know, his parents worked and his siblings were preoccupied. Or human.
Other than the few words, knowing what he wanted when he asked for it was a matter of having known him all his life. His family understood better than us neighbor kids, naturally.
Oh -- he was blind, too, so I was amazed how he navigated his way around the dinner plate without making a mess.
Anyway.
Steve was sent away when he turned eighteen. His parents made him a ward of the state, I guess. His family moved away after their father died.
I've had some plans up my sleeve for a few months.
This blog is moving soonish to breathingmoss. Some posts are already cross-posted, but I'm still working out formatting and such. I'll post when I'm all done here.
I love options. Having three distinct (and equally valid) first names is the kind of pluralist I like to be. The only downside is that it seems like I don't know my name when I stammer upon introducing myself.
I am who I say I am. But I'm also a couple other people too.
4 comments:
Beautiful flowers, from a beautiful friend, at the most beautiful (in my mind) time of day.
In my childhood neighborhood, there was a boy whose name was Steve. He was the eldest of five, and called "Stevie." In some ways he seemed so childlike, even at sixteen.
He rocked, back and forth, standing or sitting. He hummed and sang and loved to play the piano, and a zither, in a way that annoyed his siblings. He said a few words we understood: apple, bike ride, fig newton, outside, outside, outside. He was always saying, "outside," but, you know, his parents worked and his siblings were preoccupied. Or human.
Other than the few words, knowing what he wanted when he asked for it was a matter of having known him all his life. His family understood better than us neighbor kids, naturally.
Oh -- he was blind, too, so I was amazed how he navigated his way around the dinner plate without making a mess.
Anyway.
Steve was sent away when he turned eighteen. His parents made him a ward of the state, I guess. His family moved away after their father died.
If he's still alive, he turned 49 in January.
His hands moved like the wings of a humming bird.
I feel ashamed.
The movie was mesmerizing: thank you for sharing it. Such an important reminder.
wow. i have no words, only emotion and salt burning my eyes.
i like to leave flowers anonymously on may day.
Zilla: Why are you ashamed, dear? "His hands moved like the wings of a humming bird." That's beautiful.
Post a Comment