A Very Good Day or The Value of Rotten Times

Yesterday I am on the East side of the town I live in. I live on the West side. This particular downtown is in a bowl between the East and West hills. As I drive down the East side hills, I see the most magnificent sunset. The sky is so dramatically streaked with pink, orange, red, deep blue and even turquoise. The clouds are in a different mood from usual in dramatic streaks across the sky. Classical music is playing on my radio and the building rhythms seem to match this great beauty. The orchestra strings are singing with a building type of tension still so sweet and not brooding. I am supposed to make a stop on my way home but skip it. I think I will wait until the next day, choosing instead to continue driving into this beautiful sunset. Now I am at the very bottom of the bowl of the town looking up and the sunset is still going strong.


I drive into the sunset and admire it the entire time. I think I can get home soon enough to capture this on film and show it to someone. I want to share it or I can try to paint it. Somehow, I want to keep this moment and capture this beauty. Somehow... Before I start up the other side of the hills of the West, the sunset is past its peak with its most shining moments now gone in time. The violins break through their tensions on the radio and sing with their final delight and ending. The music could not have been scripted better in a movie. This is the story I am really in, and not simply watching. When I arrive home it is dark and too late to take the photo. The only way I can possibly share my experience is to tell others who have also seen great sunsets and depend upon their own knowing to understand. Today, I settle for some spectacular tango music as I order my coffee from the drive up. Although the weather is a little warmer than usual for this time of year, it just isn't the same as yesterday. "Yo Quiero something something something... ," the man in the great tango song begs. I have no idea what he wants, but I like the sound of it. I receive my coffee and drive off.


So what does it mean to be in all this great music? What makes the agonizing tensions wonderful and so sweet to behold when someone else is singing about it? I roar down the highway in my car screaming along with tunes about love, drugs, dementia and pain. I don't have drugs, dementia and pain, at least not today... Just a coffee if that counts. But someone takes all that and rolls it into some sort of a celebration that I sing along to. It is about life, death, and the cuts received by traveling along the sharp edges. Or it is a song about no love, no death, and barely living? I like the music but it does not really touch upon my ponderings of, "Why." I suppose it just is. Being pushed towards constant evolution isn't easy when I would rather be swimming.


Why don't I have a trust fund? I wonder why all the time. My favorite or least favorite simple question depending upon the day. Just plain why. Why are we here? Why do these things happen? Why do all these things happen to everyone? Where are all the dinosaurs? I am always told that we all have a personal goal in being here. These goals change and interlock with the personal goals of others. That is why our personal goals are also shared goals. My greatest good works with others, and as I change the reflections created in Indra's Net also change. When I make progress towards my greater goals, so do others. My potential becomes greater as do the potentials of others. As I change, I have the opportunity to uplift or drag others down with me if they let me. I am doing soul work in every action I take or do not take.


For some reason I have a great day and all I want to do is continue that great day. If I am in the sun swimming and the weather is nice and people are getting along, that is where I want to be. Then I have my rotten day. That is where life tortures come in. I am anguished, thirsty, and cannot comprehend why these things would happen to a nice kid like me. Confusion rains on my happy parade. I sing hard songs, write, paint, and the poetry pours fourth. Then I sit back on a better day and say, "Criminy. I cannot write like that when I am as happy as a cat on a warm car hood." I do not truly mind though. I simply notice it. Then I realize that my rotten days squeeze something out of me that I would not comprehend on my happy days. I would still rather have happy days all the time and sometimes I try to see if I can get the same ideas as when I am being tortured. I still like what I come up with but the creativity seems to lack those sharp edges and jagged teeth of the other stuff. Phooey. As much as I hate to admit it, those bad days can end up being beautiful opera. Where would strong German opera be if it were not for some really rotten days? What could they be singing about? The woman or man I love really loves me, society always accepts me, and there is no struggle ever and our parents like each other?


The bad days blow in through the window accidentally left open on purpose and then I pay attention again. I try harder and make sure I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. I can't help feeling that somehow I am being squeezed out like a tube of toothpaste towards my destiny despite my semi-retirement. Bad days are occasionally slamming into me telling me to accept change. Accept more light allowing the blockages to open up and through those mental constructs that I believe make me who I am. When I am having a difficult time, I find doing something creative helps. It is a nice reminder that I can still do some things well even when everything else seems to be falling away into change, the unfamiliar, and evolving into something completely new. The adventure unknown so far to me strikes again. Today I had a very good day, and this is all I came up with.