Saturday Morning

Repost from old blog, 2/4/2008I used to lay in bed on Saturday mornings. I could feel the summer sun shining through my window. I listened to the sound of children playing, dogs barking, cars rolling down the road. Life happening. There was too much. I was paralyzed. I wanted to experience all of it, but I didn’t know where to start. So all I did was lie in bed and listen.

I used to gaze out my bedroom window at the horizon. I could see pretty far, to a ridge of trees high above my little rural town. I’d focus on the highest tree, and wonder where it was. How did you get there? What would I see if I got there?

I used to stand in the dining room of the restaurant where I bussed tables. I would watch the hordes of Sunday post-church customers – old ladies and old men – and I would think, these people have all had sex, and I haven’t.

I used to hold this image in my mind: a group of kids, my age, driving in a car at night, rock music streaming out the window. Orange paths of lit cigarettes as they pass by. One girl has her hand out the window, sailing on the night air.

For most of my life, I was convinced that everybody else was living more fully than me.