Moonlit contemplations

The past couple of days have been pretty typical for this time of year in Seattle: drizzly, damp, cold. But the weather cleared up this evening - the sky was clear, the moon was out, there was a breeze strong enough to remember that it was fall but not strong enough to feel the need to arm yourself for weather. Even though I now live in a part of Seattle where I feel a lot safer being out alone at night, I'll admit that my childhood fear of the dark lingers enough that I still don't tend to do so. But tonight felt so welcome after all this drizzle damp, so I put on some sneakers and headed out.

You remember when you were little, that thing your mom taught you about dealing with the annoying younger brother? That the more annoyed you become by his behavior, the more effort he'll put in to egg you on -- but if you aren't bothered, he gets bored and goes away? I'm slowly discovering that all the questions, anxieties, and uncertainties in my life right now act much the same way. They create a lot of noise and clutter in my brain, but are easiest to deal with when I don't freak out about the noise and clutter - left to their own devices, they settle down.

I end up in a kind of "chicken or the egg" contemplation of the evening and these fluttering questions. The night was peaceful - was that what allowed me to relax enough to settle the fluttering? Or was the night peaceful because I'd settled the fluttering, and the quiet in my mind let me enjoy the evening?

Regardless, the nature of the evening rid me of agendas. I felt grateful to have been given this space, this stillness, in the midst of my fluttering uncertainties. So I let my feet decide which way they wanted to take me. Trusting that I'll get to where I'm going because where I'm going is right here. Knowing that I'll make it home when it is time, because my feet can know and my brain does not need to drive all the time.

I hear the wind go past my ears and the rhythm of my sneakers hitting the pavement with each step. I smell the landscapes of Seattle-ite yards - pine, lavender, rosemary, dried leaves damp on the sidewalk. The moon, though only a little more than half full, is illuminating the night so that the clouds shone in stark contrast to the night sky. At the peak of each rolling hill, the city lights blink and glimmer in the distance. And to the west - darkness, where land drops into the Sound.

Something about nighttime in the suburbs really resonates with me. The sun goes down, the street lights come on, and everyone is cozy inside making dinner, putting children to bed, sleeping early because they have real jobs in the morning. And so the sidewalks are all yours, the shadows, the sky. I always end up anthropomorphizing the cars, tucked away against the curbs for the night.

I found the empty streets tonight dustily familiar. My mind resurrected childhood memories of taking walks after dinner with my father, on days when the chaos of our household was overwhelming me. Perhaps we would talk, my dad and I, about what was upsetting me, but I don't remember. The important thing was the stillness, the break from the chaos. The streets were so wide, empty, inviting. There was space for me, for my thoughts. Nighttime empty streets don't ask or need, they just allow you to continue placing one foot forward after another.

Someone expressed to me recently that all the quarter-life crises I have - those times in which all those fluttering questions seem to be overwhelming me and weighing me down - are not a sign that I'm falling apart or breaking down, but a sign that I'm growing. And I suppose that sounds a bit schmaltzy (in fact this entire post is a bit more schmaltzy than my norm), but I dunno, it sounds good doesn't it?