There I sat on the plane to Portugal, fishing in my backpack for a pen. I wanted to write about my experiences in Croatia that I’d been gifted over the past four days: magical and hilarious and lucky and provocative, but fleeting and faith-demanding. I needed to write them down, put them in resin, enshrine the knowledge and joys.
I needed my pen.
As I thumbed haphazardly, muted-desperately, feeling textures I was not in search of, I engaged in a private mental conversation about our sense-melding ability to discern. A dusty silicone of my hairbrush, no; a coolness of my “Better than Sex” mascara, no; the pale carnal of my leather purse strap, no, no, no, no.
I needed my pen.
The memories, like a human life, were degrading (or evolving, unraveling, learning the potentially fitness-inducive nature of white lies, to maybe be more precise) in a nearly imperceptible way as each second passed. The seconds were adding up.
I needed my pen.
As I continued my search, the desired destination crept into the shadow of my growing awareness of the journey. It was suddenly so apparently amazing that I could use my palm and fingertips to swiftly locate the pen. At this point, my bag had been brought to my lap because I knew my eyes might expedite this journey, and
I needed my pen.
I searched, and it was amazing to me how my fingertips could tell an eyebrow comb from a lip gloss just how they could a potential lover from a passerby; how my eyes could tell a pink from a red just how they could a longing (or loving) gaze from a disillusioned stare. This is all to say we can innately perceive—and then discern—with an impeccable and mysterious accuracy. There is no world, as I see it, in which our modes of perception and resultant discernment exist only within the bounds of whats visible, physical. Your flesh and mind perceive for you in an instant and unfaltering and innate manner. Just like how you would never question your ability to tell a hot from a cold, a blue from a green, so long as you are good, never berate your discernment in more social, emotional, physically-unsubstantiated planes.
A dry-stickiness of the rubber and an artificial smooth of the plastic and a faux metal tip. Unmistakably pink. There it was, my pen.
And now I can write.
I needed my pen.
As I thumbed haphazardly, muted-desperately, feeling textures I was not in search of, I engaged in a private mental conversation about our sense-melding ability to discern. A dusty silicone of my hairbrush, no; a coolness of my “Better than Sex” mascara, no; the pale carnal of my leather purse strap, no, no, no, no.
I needed my pen.
The memories, like a human life, were degrading (or evolving, unraveling, learning the potentially fitness-inducive nature of white lies, to maybe be more precise) in a nearly imperceptible way as each second passed. The seconds were adding up.
I needed my pen.
As I continued my search, the desired destination crept into the shadow of my growing awareness of the journey. It was suddenly so apparently amazing that I could use my palm and fingertips to swiftly locate the pen. At this point, my bag had been brought to my lap because I knew my eyes might expedite this journey, and
I needed my pen.
I searched, and it was amazing to me how my fingertips could tell an eyebrow comb from a lip gloss just how they could a potential lover from a passerby; how my eyes could tell a pink from a red just how they could a longing (or loving) gaze from a disillusioned stare. This is all to say we can innately perceive—and then discern—with an impeccable and mysterious accuracy. There is no world, as I see it, in which our modes of perception and resultant discernment exist only within the bounds of whats visible, physical. Your flesh and mind perceive for you in an instant and unfaltering and innate manner. Just like how you would never question your ability to tell a hot from a cold, a blue from a green, so long as you are good, never berate your discernment in more social, emotional, physically-unsubstantiated planes.
A dry-stickiness of the rubber and an artificial smooth of the plastic and a faux metal tip. Unmistakably pink. There it was, my pen.
And now I can write.