The beautiful day

Link to The beautiful day - a ten minute photo/essay on memories


Almost the same text as recorded:

You could say that each life is the collection of our unique memories. Memories are like beads on a string. Time is the string. This is, of course, all too simple. At every moment, images, sounds, thoughts and feelings – the sensations and experiences of life - are moments becoming a memory. Only a few will be we able to recount. The rest, perhaps, inform our being. Sometimes, a registered moment will return unbidden to our awareness, reminding us who we have been.

Scientists can explain some of this, but in large part, the mysteries of memory remain unmeasured. I experience my life as humans have experienced their human lives since the beginning. Each of us from our own unique perspective, of course.

A Sunday not long ago was a day I would have liked to hold onto forever. Or at least in safer keeping than in my fragmented mind so that I could bring the best parts of it back into my close awareness. Some of those moments happened so quickly that only in a more reflective moment did I realize their worth to me.

Because it is so simple in modern times, I took some photos that day. But most of the day went unrecorded – except as memories – most of them irretrievable – in my mind. I did take some notes with pen and paper – but my thoughts scrawled ahead so rapidly that I can hardly make out more than a word or phrase on those pages.

And so, all that is left is for me to tell you what comes to mind.

I have repeated my path from our house to the river so many times, that it becomes nearly impossible to know which time was which. I certainly don’t notice every moment as I pass through it. Let’s just simplify matters and say that on that Sunday morning it was a beautiful day – the planet turning as it always does beneath my steps. Sidewalks and streets. Trees and buildings. Light and colors and shapes and textures. Sky blue sky.

And once again I took yet another picture of the sunrise over the Kaw. And this time, I noticed the shadows of the railing against the concrete barrier between the pedestrian and vehicle sides of the bridge.

And there’s a story about this black flag near the water’s edge that I won’t tell you about now. Maybe I never will.

I stopped at Aimee’s Coffee Shop as usually do. My mind is filled with fuzzy images of Emily and Abbi – as well as the other baristas and regulars that I have seen there and talked and listened to. I’m sure that I was glad to see Emily and Abbi at that hour on a Sunday morning. I could tell you what they look like, but it hardly matters.  And which smile would be the one I try to describe? And who knows what we chatted about? Should I try to tell you on a scale of one to ten how happy I was to be alive for that hour or so?

But Dawn and I were planning to go to the Nelson in Kansas City later. It was still a beautiful day as I walked the few blocks towards home. And should I say that the drive in our Corolla was uneventful? I remember some hesitant crosstalk about where to turn and whether it was this way or that. We meant to stop to see if we could see a former Aimee’s barista, now living and working in KC. Chez Elle on Summit Street was packed around noon that Sunday. About all we could do was say ‘hi’ as Kristina made coffee drinks behind the order window. The photos hardly tell the story of time she and I had spent together at Aimee’s that was somewhere in importance for me between something and everything. You can see that her hair was blue that Sunday but that it wasn’t her hair that I wanted to see.

There’s a bead here that I don’t want to lose, but of course it will end up in a little cubby hole in my mind, eventually. How long will I think to look for her there? We couldn’t talk that Sunday. And as the poet said, Dawn and I had miles to go before we slept.

We parked the car near the plaza. As we walked, we talked about eating at Houston’s. But from the outside they seemed busy. We reverted to our original plan to eat at The Classic Cup.

I ordered – I think it was called – a Northern Eggs Benedict. It had salmon. Dawn ordered something with grits and sausage. We shared food. The waiter was bald. Of course, there was more to our lunch together than that.

But it was still a beautiful day as we walked towards the Nelson. As my words are somewhat sketchy, I suppose you might appreciate that we took some photos with our devices. The measurement of a picture being worth a thousand words is unfortunate. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. Or salmon with sausage. But to tell you the stories that might be associated with that picture of Dawn next to the shuttlecock is considerably more than a click and done. Still, a photo gives a quick impression of appearances. And perhaps you can see that we were appearing to have a beautiful day.

I don’t know how many words it would take to describe what I mean by ‘beautiful,’ assuming that I could put our experience into words. And sometimes the memories are like knots in nets. Or layers of soil laid down over millions of years. Sometimes like sunlight off the Kaw River.

We entered the gallery by sort of the back entrance. It was packed – for an art gallery – for a member’s event of the opening of a show of Dutch paintings – the Age of Rembrandt and Vermeer. Not holding tickets, we wandered through an exhibit called ‘Colors.’ A guard said that we could take photos, so we played with the art a little. Easier to show you than to describe, of course. Easier to remember.

Then a couple handed us their tickets for the private opening, saying they were ready to leave already. We weren’t allowed to take photos, but we wouldn’t have wanted to. The paintings were exquisitely made, but mostly of posed Dutch men with their ruffled collars.

These are just the gallery windows. And your eyes may play tricks on you with this wall sculpture made of wires. How much more did I not show you? Or tell?

We left by the door we had entered and walked back to our car. It was still a beautiful day. I should have perhaps mentioned that the fountain on the corner of one street and the other with the bronzed horses and riders spearing sea creatures and stuff was dry. And still, people were sitting around it. Must I say that many people were experiencing their own beautiful day?

I fell asleep in the sunshine through the window on the way home. It should be obvious that Dawn was driving. I continued my nap when we got home and when I got up I think I went for a walk. Unfortunately, I have no more photos and made no notes, so that I can hardly recall where I went or what Dawn and I had for supper.

Yet another barista from Aimee’s had made sort of an offer that I read for a short film she was helping one of her friends make. The story of that continuation of the beautiful day extending into the evening will have to wait till next week. I will tell you this much in advance. I am not an actor.

Beauty is not just in the eye of the beholder, but if you can behold beauty, you will also discover it in the spaces and moments between the obviously beautiful high points. And, it should go without saying that the weather does not have to be beautiful for a day to be beautiful, but at times you will notice that the weather is memorable and forgotten all at the same time.