Moments. I want my life to be a compilation of them. Little vignettes. I appreciate it more like that.
Overwhelming joy. Like the day in 2006 when I planned a trip to Chicago for David because his favorite musician was playing. It was the same night the Cardinals won the World Series.
Every pocket vibration brought a thrill as friends and family updated me on the score. There were no TVs in the venue. The subwoofer created false hope too. Booming bass led to agonizing moments when I had no update on my phone. But then the concert was over. Bella called within minutes. It was the 9th inning, we needed 2 more outs…1 more…2 strikes…and, finally, the eruption of a city through my phone as I stood in Chicago, surrounded by Cubs fans. It was epic. And I cried bliss-filled tears.
Debilitating sadness. Walking down dilapidated streets, past two white houses, to enter the small smoke-filled funeral home, where I would have to say good-bye to a former student. Her sister must have been looking out the window and saw me. She grabbed me and put so much love in-between her arms that I thought she might never have anymore to give to another human being.
“You’re shaking,” she said.
“No. Don’t be. It proves why she loved you so much. Why everyone loves you. You really do care.”
It was epic. And I cried tears of sadness.
It’s in these moments that living for every breath, inhaling, is effortless. It’s all you can do, really.
Why should it ever be different than that?