Recovering Days

Someone once told me, "Don't let your days pass as if they don't mean anything." But that's exactly what I have let myself do. I have become a hermit, an island. At least I realize it, and that means I can change it.

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I recently had a conversation with my neighbor, who looks about as happy as I feel these days. He was lamenting the death of his childhood, rather the fact that he is so far removed from the joy and wonder he experienced as a child. He now has to settle for the experience of seeing such joy only in the face of his son. I imagine that's a great feeling, but it's one step removed, so I can't imagine it's nearly as fulfilling. But I've been wrong before.

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Out of the two of us, I think I'm the lucky one. I still experience such joy, the joy of a child, though it is fleeting. I still know how to play. I still know how to get lost in myself. I still know how to tap into that sense of discovery. I still know how to find happiness in silly things, simple things. I too lament the lack of joy in my life, but I know it's still within me. I just have to figure out a way to unlock whatever box I've stored it in.

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I awoke yesterday morning to rays of brilliant sunlight filling the room. I had work to do, but life is indeed too short to be wasted solely on productivity. I decided to go hiking, to enjoy the sunshine and burn some calories. So I loaded my backpack and headed for Pulpit Rock, west of Hamburg, Pa. On the way there, along the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the sunshine went in hiding and it began to snow. Part of me was disappointed. Another part of me was happy -- joyous -- that winter was not yet ready to relinquish its grip.

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It took me about an hour to reach the top of Pulpit Rock from the trailhead. I saw only one person along the way. Streams overflowed with winter meltwater. Trees flowered with buds. Egg sacs cradling unborn frog or newt larvae floated in cloudy masses at the edge of a small pond. Signs of change were everywhere, warning me that much time had passed and life was getting on with itself, whether I had anything to say about it or not. I climbed along the edges of large boulders at the lip of Pulpit Rock, then settled into a nook at the top to rest my ailing right knee. Gray clouds sent long shadows across the greening pastures and rolling hills of the Lehigh Valley (pictured). The sun showed its face every few minutes, then yielded to more clouds that sprinkled snow.

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This, to me, meant the seasons hadn't yet turned, no matter what the calendar suggested, which meant I hadn't wasted a full season of days, which meant I still have time to stop listing and turn around this warship.