Up early, reading some Robert Frost poetry I don’t remember reading before. I’m mesmerized by a line and read on. I get like this.
Millions of songs on iTunes, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s out there despite a lifetime focus on music. I’ve spent huge chunks of my time exploring new music, Shazam’ing songs in loud bars and quiet coffee café and back in the day hanging out in used record stores in Harvard Square trying to find that one gem, that magical song. And I’ve found many over the years. Eclectic collection perhaps, but dammit, interesting.
A bucket list of places to see, and slowly I chip away at it. My list grows shorter, not because I don’t want to go to all the other places, but because I want to focus on the specific few. Linger in special places, like listening to a song over and over until you really know it. Instead of trying to chase everything in a spin of futility. No, not that. Give me Thoreau at Walden or Hemingway in Key West. Or Frost in Derry. I’ve visited each of these places and understand the power of immersion it had on them.
I mourn for the undiscovered songs, poems, books and places. The conversation you never had with a grandparent. The sunrise you slept through, the lonely beach you didn’t stroll on in winter, the ridge line you didn’t cross, the Northern Lights that danced unseen, the big city that woke up without you, the swims in bracingly cold water and salt on the tongue that you’ll never taste; the places you’ll never be.
We can’t be everywhere of course. But I’ll do my best to be present in this moment at least. Tomorrow will come and I hope to see it. But don’t mourn for losing today if I should get there.