I want to share the beauty that I find. I want to share the joy I take. I want to share the things I love. But do I want to share this beauty, joy, and love because it is beauty, joy, and love, or because it is “mine?” Can it even be "mine?"
I went for a walk in the rain this evening, while the sun set unnoticed behind the clouds. I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before. In addition to the soft patter of drops on the hard ground, there was the bright chimes of each and every drop falling into already formed puddles. The water was cold around my ankles where it flowed, but the concrete was warm from sunny days past. Some of the clouds folded and flowed like smoke or cloth. The rain was cold on my skin, but I enjoyed the sensation and didn’t bother to go back in for a jacket.
I walked around the capitol, cutting one corner across the soft grass lawn. I normally abhor the wastefulness of high-maintenance lawns, but in certain public places, such as schools and parks, I believe they are essential. It was cool and spongy beneath my bare feet. Every time I circumambulate the capitol, I cannot help but not that the monument to Abraham Lincoln is in exactly the wrong place. Bertram Goodhue would shake his head in shame. I return to the paved paths, though rougher, they are also warmer.
The stone of the capitol is warm Indiana limestone and it holds its warmth even against the greyest and dreariest days. There is no rustication of the base, no need to make false claim to the glory of ages past by pretending to build upon the foundations of ancients. It is built upon the vast plain of the earth and that is enough. The main entry faces north and the bronze doors, though large, make no effort to fill their stone arch. Two simple doors are enough and above them the words “The salvation of the state is watchfulness in the citizen.”
On the corner the creamy, Gothic tower of the Catholic church is offset by the curved, Post-modernist Brutalism of the Baptists, while down the block, the nondenominational brick of First Christian is modest in comparison, but the most lovely of frames for the most beautiful stained glass. I turn towards home. The sky is lightening and the rain tapering off, thunder making one final grumble. The frisky north wind splits my wrap pants and places cold, wet kisses up the length of my leg as I cross the street.
I fetch the mail, for which I came down in the first place before becoming distracted. There is a golden tiger lily growing out of the small, pink rosebush by the front step. My skin is chilled and bumpy and the warmth of the thick, brick walls feels good. And I think about why I went for this walk and why I will write about this walk and why I will post it.
I have no answers, but I don’t mind.