Scenes From My Life

The Cathedral’s sanctuary is completely silent.  Sunlight streaks through windows high above, illuminating the otherwise dim chamber.  A few small groups of visitors quietly wander along the aisles, looking at the small shrines that lined the walls.  I slowly make my way along the path, my eyes scanning the scene, attempting to take everything in, to remember it.  Behind me, I hear a squeaking sound followed by fast-paced footsteps.  Another squeaking sound is followed by footsteps that sound as if they have grown closer.  I turn around to see a child, 12 maybe 13 years old, walking hurriedly towards me, his tennis shoes squeaking with every few steps against the tile floor.  No one tells him to slow down or to watch out for the other people.  They just step out of his way.  I quickly step to the side, eager to avoid a collision.  Then, just as he passes me, he lifts one of his feet and, from the sole of his shoe comes two small wheels.  He repeats the same steps with his other foot a

“A picture postcard A folded stub A program of the play File away your photographs Of your holiday” Those words are from Billy Joel’s song, Souvenir.   I heard that song for the first time in a long time yesterday.   When I listened to it, my mind went immediately to my own travels and the souvenirs I gained from them.   It made me think about some of my favorite mementos. New York, New York:   Manhattan is littered with souvenir shops and streetside vendors hawking all sorts of t-shirts and trinkets.   It is a translucent cube with the Statue of Liberty and the words “New York” etched onto it.   From the base, a series of pastel-colored lights illuminate the cube, the colors changing every few seconds.   It is odd, gaudy and practically screams “tourist.”   But, I think that is why I love it. Greenlake, Seattle:   Taking a sunset walk one summer evening, the typically bustling lakefront park was oddly quiet.   The sky was a graying pink.   The last glints of sunlight

It’s never too late.  Do what you love.  Live a life that makes you proud.  These sayings may seem trite.  But, there is some truth to them. It’s never too late.  Just because conventional wisdom says it is so, may not make it right.  For instance, some people find their calling at an early age.  They know almost from childhood what they want to do with their life…and they do it.  Others do not discover their purpose until well into adulthood.  They try a variety of fields until they find that one thing.  Their passion.  What they love.  The thing that makes them proud. These feelings were best summed up by F. Scott Fitzgerald, when he wrote: “For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you.

As the train sped through the darkened tunnel, slight glimmers of light became visible from the station ahead.  The other people on the train strained to look out of the windows.  Some people determinedly grabbed their belongings and prepared to exit at the station.  Other people just seemed overwhelmed, their eyes darting between the approaching platform and the multi-colored lines of the route map.  Looking through the car’s windows, I could see that the platform was crowded.  While some people followed the approaching train intently, others just seemed lost in their own thoughts, almost oblivious to anything - and anyone - else around them. To my side, I could see through the plate glass partition leading to the next car.  The scene there was much as it was now in my car.  A crowd of people standing at the car’s doors, like runners on their marks, ready to make an immediate exit.  The train came to a stop and, after a brief pause, the doors parted and I was ru

      I have experienced my share of luggage issues over the years.  My baggage has been torn.  It has been left off of the plane.  Once, after a delay, it was even delivered to the wrong address.  Still, last year, I experienced a first:  my luggage got stuck on the plane.      It was a few days before Christmas.  My parents and I flew into Seattle to spend the holidays with the rest of my family.  The plane we had flown in on was a massive 767 that was, as most flights are these days, filled to capacity.  The plane arrived at the gate and my parents and I made our way to baggage claim.  Typically, Seattle’s airport, though it does not do the same level of business as my home airport, Atlanta, is relatively quick to get luggage to the carousels.       After about fifteen minutes, we had made it to the carousel, which was empty.  Slowly, more and more people that I recognized from our flight arrived.  After ten minutes, we all were still standing there waiting, with no sign of our