When Things Made Sense

When Things Made Sense[1]

In the beginning things made sense.

Intuition and empathy permitted me to wander in other peoples’ minds, stroll though other peoples’ souls, wearing other peoples’ shoes.  I was joyfully non-competitive, spontaneous. Procrastination was an art form.  Mañana ever present.  The inchoate world spilled from infinity to eternity and back again.  Everything was possible.  Every option open.  Evil, an illusion, a misunderstanding.  Happiness just was.

Mornings brought vistas of purple peaks.  Special mornings:  clear, cool, cloudless mornings;  sometimes brought a special treat.  A brilliant cone of white peaking over the highest of the local mountains.

A quilt in greens and tans and browns and oranges spread in the valley below.  Trees reached long arms to touch the sun and explosions in green and yellow played at their feet.  Happy floral explosions, not the other kind, the kind that started later, shattering the world that was.

The land undulated in hills and dales almost everywhere, roads and streets curving dizzily to hold precarious perches on the mountain’s sides.  From the heights it seemed that I could see the entire world, hazy and indistinct in the distance, but there just the same.

Everything seemed solid.  The afternoon sky so pure a living blue one could swim in it (if one knew how to swim).  The night sky an indigo blanket full of brilliant pin pricks and one argent vessel, changing from a dazzling orb to a slender crescent and back again.  The morning fog a cool silver river that slowly dissipated into a breezy, wet, warm mist.

Afternoon rains in winter empathically divided the day, the bright blue sky congealing into a thick grey cascade.  Then they wandered off.  Vapors slain by liquid gold.  The air again, crisp and clean and cool.  Preparing the deep evening chill.  The cool pleasure that contrasted with warming sheets under thick alpaca covers.  Then dreams explaining new life in primordial languages, understood but for an instant.

Sleeping late was not a pleasure then.  Dawn’s adventures called too loudly for sweet dreams to overcome.  Innocent adventures beckoned daily from a world eager to be explored.  A different world.  Still there somewhere, alive in someone’s heart, refusing to believe that everything has changed.

[1] © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Ocala, Florida, 1998; all rights reserved

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