One is often told that one should count their blessings. I know what my blessings are, and I dare not trivialize them by listing them numerically. One doesn't, after all, count the breaths one takes in a day. My mother is a blessing, and so is my ability to walk and talk - but how in God's name do I place one above the other?
Instead, I'd rather count the happy things, memories usually, that pop into my head from time to time. I usually lose them before I realize how valuable they are, so it's best to record them every so often. They appear and disappear so effortlessly - something in my brain decides to let a thought loose, and for a minute, I can smile, and savour it and let it roll around freely before I get back to the business at hand, which usually involves scaling the walls of the depths of despair. Sometimes, of course, it's just a puddle of despair, but still and all, it's nice to know that my brain has got a rope to throw...
The first time I heard Smooth, by Santana, I know I wanted to dance a choreographed cha cha to it. Roughly three years later, I did it, and I did it well, and that magical feeling of putting my feet exactly where they needed to be still makes me feel light-headed with that feeling performing has always given me...
"I am the Countess Angelina de Rosa Amoretti Maria Tarantella Vincente a la Gina Maletti Gilardi di Belladonna." I said that line on a high school stage, and hoisted my... talents, and there was much laughter and applause. Or maybe there wasn't. But I like to think that there might have been. It's funny that one of my happier moments as a teenager happened while I was pretending to be somebody else. Or maybe that's not true. I was 17, and nothing is real when you're 17...
There have been many kisses. But once upon a time, there was a kiss that was given so sweetly, and with great skill and much talent. He kissed me so thoroughly that I was left with the feeling that the kiss was supposed to be mine, and not something I stole because it was dark and no one was looking. Afterwards, of course, that's exactly what it turned out to be, but at the time, that's not what it felt like, and that's what I like to remember...
It was the best of times, as I sat waiting at the gate with my friend, about to head to Vegas. It was the worst of times, because my grandmother had died 6 days before. And it was a comfortably numb feeling that I had that day, not knowing what was about to happen, but happy enough knowing that I wouldn't be alone...
The first time I went to the Tower of London, and took a picture of the Tower Bridge, and walked around in the English sunshine by myself, I thought I was the happiest girl in the world. I had independence and gumption and there was no holding me back. A few months later, on a late summer evening, I was there again, but accompanied by many friends, and there was a tinge of sadness, because the nights were starting to chill, and some of those friends would be leaving soon. Seven years later, I realize that that first day at the Tower was nothing but fear and loneliness and the false bravado that I'd had the sense enough to conjure up. The second visit, however, will remain clear and unfogged by time, as I hold it close to my heart as one of the loveliest evenings I've ever had. I'm proud to realize that I can understand the value of the difference, and it's wonderful to know that those friends are still only a phone call away. It's also comforting to know that they won't let me get too maudlin in my memories...
There are more of course, moments of joy, rose-coloured memories that linger forever. But sometimes, it's best to let them rise naturally. If I dig too deeply for the good stuff, I'll upset the balance, and all the bad stuff will rise as well.
It's nice to know they're there, though. It's a blessing, really.
0 comments so far