beautiful things

Blessed are the souls that find within themselves the drive to seek them

out. Mine is not yet one of them.

Note: This post began as a prose companion to stargazing (part 2) and

quickly became a somber journal entry. I hereby vow that I'm okay,

especially so now that these words are not purely internal. Also, I

acknowledge that I've had a much easier pandemic experience than most.

I'm not trying to belittle or invalidate any experience; just to

discuss my own and be truthful about how it's felt.

2021-08-24.

During my first year at university, beginning Fall 2019, my courses

carried me every day out of my residence hall, across a rather large

pedestrian bridge, to the heart of campus. The university has excellent

public transportation along this route, or so I hear. The seasons made

this voyage, in turn, crisp, then frigid, and finally spring-brisk, just

as the COVID-19 pandemic began to constrict. As winter approached and

the sun ever sooner abandoned the city, so did the stars rise earlier in

consolation. Every morning was painted thoroughly in the colors of the

rising sun, and many nights began silently, softly, beneath the stars

left in its absence. It was truly a beautiful thing.

Rather, it still is, and I imagine it will be until the bridge crumbles

to dust or the stars fade to black. The bridge is a twenty-minute walk

from my current home. It is a three-minute walk from my workplace. The

area's suitably safe at night. I haven't seen it at such a beautiful

hour since those days. I haven't bothered to.

Tension. Between action and inaction; between indulgence and

contentment. Even as I write, I know I could go. I can continue writing

this post for readers countable on one hand, or I can go stand beneath

stars uncountable on one thousand. This is familiar. I can continue

writing, gaming, or watching this week's chosen on-demand media. I

could instead call my parents, text my sibling, reach out to an old

friend, sit in a park and just breathe, see the world, or look wistfully

beyond it. I could stargaze.

I've learned things while living alone. I've learned exactly how

little I bother to do without someone around to nudge me. I've learned

that as much as I embrace modern spirituality and espouse meditation and

advocate for quiet, reflective idleness, I do nothing of substance.

Stargazing, you can feel your soul reach out. Sitting in a park,

watching a passing mother and daughter play with bubbles, you're filled

with a gently powerful warmth, even when you didn't layer up as much as

you should have. When out for a walk with someone you care about, and

fresh out of conversation, your very souls seem to connect and together

overpower any awkwardness that might otherwise inundate the silence.

That is substance; that's what matters. Even at my best, when I'm

meditating, learning, working, exercising, and eating properly, I do

little of substance. Locked away in my apartment, my soul sleeps.

Likely, these moments will be restored as the pandemic wanes. As in

person interactions resume, I'll start to actually interact with human

beings again, on my own terms, with no limiting agenda like work or rock

climbing. Then again, periods of my history worry me in this regard. I

have before gone many months engaging with high school clubs and

socializing well enough during classes without ever actually spending

free time with my peers. That works for some, and that's fine. It was

unhealthy for me. I couldn't work up the nerve to invite people out, or

even to accept invitations. Nothing is convincing me now that things

will be any different this time around, but there's a lot that I don't

know.

Maybe I'll go ask the stars. In the meantime, find a few beautiful

things for yourself.

Ty (chronic almost-stargazer)