Silent Lucidity
Our son Jake, 15, began football conditioning camp today which meant my day started at 7:00a.m. I’m going to be honest and admit that I haven’t seen 7am in many months, probably since I left my job at [MAJOR COMMUNICATIONS CORPORATION].
A thunderstorm had blown through town in the wee hours of the morning sending Emma into Rob’s and my bed and Katelynn into Jenna’s. Everyone was still fast asleep as Jake and I headed out to the high school football stadium.
Outside, the skies to the north and east were that deep shade of dark purple-blue that warns of so much more to come, while pastel pink and blue clouds that might have been oil-painted by the masters (or by THE Master) filled the western and southern skies.
The city streets stretching the three-and-a-half miles between our home and the school were polished ebony and traffic on them was non-existent as the rest of our busy metropolis either slept or readied themselves for another Monday. In a haze of drowsiness, Jake and I rode in silence.
I dropped him off and took the long way home, driving more slowly than is my habit and pulling over briefly in some doctor’s office parking lot to really take in the absolute natural beauty of a scene Hollywood uses millions of dollars in technology to reproduce.
And the stillness was inspiring.
I could climb a mountain . . . write a book . . . run a marathon . . . cure cancer . . . raise four children into happy well-adjusted adults.
In the quiet, anything was possible. IS possible.
