This week I turn 25. In two days I will have lived a quarter of a century. I have lived a fourth of the expected human life. I could have lived a whole quarter of my life. Or more. I suppose you don’t really know that bit until the whole thing is over.
It almost two in the morning on a Sunday. It’s one of those rare, wonderful Sundays when I won’t have to work in the morning. I’m awake because I can be, and it feels delicious. I’ll go to church tomorrow, and perhaps I’ll sit by the fountain outside the dark basement classrooms we hold services in and listen to the water fall in on itself while I let the sun tease my cheeks until they blossom into roses.
It always amazes me when I’m alone out there. Occasionally someone will be sitting at the little tables under the shady umbrellas across the way, and once I watched a mother blow bubbles for her children in the grass nearby. I’m always alone at the fountain though. I sit on the smooth marble edge and I let the water run over my hands or across my toes, and I feel the peace settle in my chest.
That’s what church is to me, that renewal. I think it’s why I’m still religious. The services, they put the thoughts there, they fill my soul with the knowledge and healing that allow it to happen. But it’s that quiet moment with just me and God, that moment of sunshine and silence. I’m never there for long, time is a difficult thing to sacrifice for me right now, even for peace of mind, even on a Sunday. But these little stolen moments at the water fountain, bubbling in an empty courtyard, they have become a ritual to me.
I won’t always be here. I don’t think I’ll even be here in this place where I go to church in that dark school building basement for very much longer. But I hope I always have a Sunday fountain.
You know for years now people have been telling me that I’m in a transitory stage of life. I’ve said it to myself, like it’s a comfort. The constant change will end, you’ll find relationships that last …the loneliness will be filled. You’ll forget how hard all of this was.
I’m beginning to think it’s a lie.
That’s not as jaded a statement as it sounds. I don’t mean that I’ve determined I’ll be lonely forever, though I confess it does feel that way sometimes.
What I mean is that life is transitory. The whole thing. Sometimes we find a quiet place to sit for a while, years even, and we think that we can live on the edge of our sunshine bathed fountains forever.
Sunday has to end though. We need Sunday, but we cannot live there. We would soon run out of things to reflect on, we’d waste away, become a part of the marble we pretend to rest on.
Monday comes, and we must march on. Every Monday is the hardest I’ve ever faced, but I never forget how I struggled through the ones that came before this one.
Do you know it’s a funny truth that everything that brings us the greatest pleasure brings us the greatest pains. Love is the most obvious example, but as I get older I’m learning it’s true of everything that brings me pleasure. Like wondering, imagining the future, writing….
But no, I won’t let my thoughts wander down that darker path. I want to celebrate the quarter century I have lived, to rejoice in the life I’ve had. I won’t darken this week with fear, speculation…depression. I will celebrate life, I will celebrate being alive, I will celebrate being young, and I will celebrate the fact that there are a hundred transitory roads spiraling in ghostly trails from me and that I can follow any one of them.