Living the questions, one moment at a time.

Monday, July 2, 2012

One Last Look

Recently, I've noticed that I have a certain tendency. It is not necessarily a positive or negative tendency, but a tendency nonetheless.

I always want my last look.

I'll explain. To me, leaving a person or a place or a time or a situation, even if it's only temporary, sparks an overwhelming desire to sear everything around me into my permanent memory. A "last look." When I keep looking, whatever has happened or whoever I'm with becomes real. Without this look, I'm terrified of forgetting.

My departure from Perugia comes to mind. One of my roommates, Ashley, and I were racing to make the same train to Rome in order to catch our flights out. When we finally got on the train, I started to feel almost shaky and unsettled (it was an emotional few days, but this was an even more exaggerated feeling). For a minute, I couldn't figure out why. But then a lightbulb went off, and I turned to Ashley.

"I forgot to look back."

Between almost missing the train, the heat, and the stress of getting huge suitcases down multiple escalators and steep hills, I had forgotten to have my last holy moment of meditation, to ingrain the rolling hills, gentle breeze, and enchanting fountain into the space behind my eyes and the depths of my heart.

Sure, I had a whole semester's worth of memories of these things. But there's something about that last look. There's something about knowing that it will be a long time before you have that view again (if you ever do) that makes you want to remember everything exactly as it was the moment you had to say goodbye.

Sometimes, these last looks are a blessing. But other times, they haunt you. The problem is that sometimes these final glances last longer than perhaps they should. Then I get stuck.

I just finished the most beautiful book over the weekend called, "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." I think it is my new favorite. I picked it up years ago but never read it. So glad I waited until I was older. This stunning passage is present in the story, and reflects my sentiments perfectly:

"It was the last time she would see the river from that window. The last time of anything has the poignancy of death itself. This that I see now, she thought, to see no more this way. Oh, the last time how clearly you see everything; as though a magnifying light had been turned on it. And you grieve because you hadn't held it tighter when you had it everyday."

That's the key, I think. That is the piece of the puzzle that I think we are all guilty of missing at one point or another. The piece that involves living every moment and appreciating each and every triumph and struggle.

It's not that a last look is a bad thing. Not at all. Not when you've been looking all along. Perugia taught me how to look.

And THAT is what I am wishing for myself every day of my life. To always have the clarity and mindfulness to absorb and cherish every view, event, and journey like it is my first and last time.




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