The other day, I went to a movie. By myself.
It wasn't the movie that really mattered. Or even the by myself part. It was the going. And even more – it was the waiting to go.
It had been another night on top of a night of too many wakings. I began the day with my sleep-cup half empty and the woe is me train roaring through my head.
John was off for the extended weekend, yet I still made breakfast with knit brows. Spoke with unnecessary sharpness. Strode around the house under a black cloud that threatened to split wide open.
I was a crab. I knew it. I felt it.
You're going to that movie today. One o'clock, right? Go. You're going.
I protested weakly but grabbed onto the prospect like a life raft. Suddenly the skies cleared. I could see the sun. Enjoy the morning.
And then I went. I curled into my seat, wrapped up in darkness and someone else's story. I lapped up every sappy second of it.
But looking forward to the movie was almost better than the movie itself. The anticipation buoyed me out of my bad mood so that I could swim in the moment. The gift of time made me a present of… the present.
But I can't go to a movie whenever I'm in a bad mood. I can't count on anticipation as a constant, as an always-available life raft, because there isn't always something sparkly at the end of the tunnel of today. Some days are just regular, flesh colored days. With no embellishments.
Actually, most days are like that, aren't they? Just part of the grind?
I know that whenever I can flick on my own light and focus on the floor in front of me rather than on a shimmery something waiting for me somewhere ahead, I recognize again that the faces and feelings in this moment are the things that are really real.
But golly, I've said that here so many times already. I've gone on and on about the fact that right here, right now is the true source of all the poetry and beauty that keeps me going.
Blah blah blah. I know all that. And I know I don't need anticipation. But it sure is nice sometimes.
