My friend Andy likes to remind me that I cannot live life in an epiphany. This is good advice for me, but still rather disappointing every time I hear it. So much of life feels infused with wonder and beauty and divine splashes, that I am not quite sure what to do with the ordinary. Don’t get me wrong... my life cannot boast of much measure of verifiable excitement (she is the girl most likely studying on a Friday night). It’s just the little wonders are usually quite thrilling. I actually get adrenaline rushes reading my textbooks, like my heart dances when my dendrites fire. I eat strawberries like they're ambrosia. My 963rd sighting of Mt. Rainer still feels like a new crush, that captured sort of gaze you feel in your stomach.
I have been told that I have an unusually high pleasure barometer for the simple things. I think I just have a disposition to make love to life.
However, this passion has concerned me as of late. For what happens when I cannot extract the divine out of a moment? When the wonder is much more rare? When the moments of life just roll along, with little to report of ecstatic inspiration?
This is how my heart feels tonight. Like I have much to thrill me, but my heart is curled up taking a nap this month. I wonder if this is just the pathos of mid-winter in a city of grey skies, or whether I am getting to learn…once again…that it is ok not to strive all of life for the epiphanic. Sometimes I need the rest.
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