byChrisWhite

The whole world, it seems, has taken its seat in a curious theater, waiting for the final act of a play called COVID-19, a drama none of us auditioned for but every last one of us got a part in. It’s a grand performance where folks work from home or not at all, twiddling thumbs or baking bread, awaiting news that oscillates between hope and despair. The result has been that many of us are left with less to do and a whole lot more time to watch the moving pictures, Lord knows, I sure have. Emily and I might have watched enough television these last few months to call it a new profession, and I figure it’s a mighty peculiar time when your education comes courtesy of the TV remote.

Now, whether all of us have become wiser from this mass binge is another matter. It depends, you see, on whether we’re filling our heads with shows like 90 Day Fiancé or spending our hours diving into Discovery Channel deep dives about the universe. As far as I can tell, Dr. Fauci (Sicilian for Flatulence), hasn’t yet advised which programs the quarantined public ought to watch to stay informed or sane, so I suppose that’s left to us. Being the good ol’ restless soul that I am, I’ve tried to watch a bit of everything, never missing out on the educational bits, but sometimes sneaking a peek at the other guilty pleasures.

But I’ll tell you this: I’ve not been writing as much as I’d hoped to during this time. You’d think a fella like me, who thrives on spinning tales of everything and nothing, might just use this newfound quiet to craft a novel or three. And yet, the inspiration just hadn’t been there. It’s a curious thing, this wondering who exactly cares for your words, and if it’s even worth the time it takes to press the pen to paper. It’s like shouting out into an empty canyon, unsure if the echo that comes back is an audience or merely your own ghost.

Then, as I pondered this for a while, I realized something simple. It doesn’t matter if the world cares, so long as I do. Writing ain’t exactly some divine calling that stirs me from sleep at night. No, it’s something else, it’s about chasing an idea for the simple fun of it, for seeing where it might lead me. It’s a game I play, and I reckon I’m at my happiest when I’ve managed to get someone else to play along, even if it’s just in their mind. So here I am, writing again, with no great moral to preach or grand tale to tell, but simply a notion that’s been teasing at me.

I found myself thinking, one day, while watching another episode of one of those science programs, about something so basic I probably should’ve shrugged it off. They were going on about how our sun is ninety-four million miles away from Earth. Ninety-four million, give or take a few, with all its unending fire, its wild storms, and its heat beyond measure. Now, I’ve probably heard that fact a thousand times over, but on this day, it seemed to settle into my mind a bit differently, as though my brain had cleared a special seat for it and said, “Come, sit awhile.”

Think about it, a raging ball of fire so far away that a person would have to walk for more years than humanity has even existed to get there, and yet, somehow, by the time its rays reach us, it’s just right. Not too hot as to burn us all to a crisp, nor too weak to leave us in an eternal freeze, but just right, comfortable enough for life to bloom on this little blue planet.

That got me thinking. About how so many things in life are about distance, timing, and just the right measure of closeness or space. Take marriage, for instance. Most folks rush into it when they hardly know how to be good company for themselves, let alone a spouse. I know I did. And driving a car? Well, there ain’t a young lad on earth who gets his first driver’s license and knows the first thing about being safe with it. We leap into things when we’re not ready, sometimes because we think we are, and sometimes just because we want to. And more often than not, we learn by getting burned, or by barely scraping by.

But then there’s the miracle of arriving exactly where you’re supposed to be, without a map or compass, despite every wrong turn, every ditch you got stuck in, and every detour that came your way. That’s how I see it with Emily and me. We’ve both had our paths, each of them winding and full of mishaps and unexpected bends. If you were to lay them side by side, it’d seem downright impossible that they’d ever intersect. And yet, here we are. It seems almost like fate, but it’s better than fate, it’s ninety-four million miles of wild journey, and then, just like sunlight, it’s perfect.

I’m not going to wax poetic about fate, karma, or any of that spiritual philosophy. Maybe they’re real, maybe they’re just ways we try to make sense of the senseless. What I know is that sometimes life just gives us what we need, not what we want. Sometimes, it feels like the universe decides it’s time for you to grow, and the only way you’re going to do that is to be put through the kind of trial you’d never choose for yourself.

And while I was sitting there thinking of the sun and its ninety-four million miles, I found myself thinking of writing. Writing has always been my way of making sense of things, a bit like standing in a field and shouting my thoughts to the hills, only hoping that somewhere, someone might hear and feel the same. It makes me feel connected, makes the world feel a little less scattered, and sometimes, it brings me right back to myself.

Last week, I turned fifty-five. And when I heard that old fact about the sun, it got me thinking about what a wonder it is that I’m here at all. The long journey I’ve taken, the happiness, the sadness, the mistakes, the triumphs, the moments I wanted to pack up and leave, and the times I should’ve but didn’t. Through all of that, I ended up right here, in this moment, writing these words. And that’s the power of that ninety-four million miles, that despite all the twists, turns, and seeming impossibilities, I am exactly where I need to be.

Emily and I started off so far apart, with lives that seemed to orbit in different galaxies. It was like we were both ninety-four million miles away from anything remotely like what we have now. And yet, here we are, two people who somehow ended up in the right place at the right time, with just enough warmth to make it feel like home. Scarred, bruised, battered, and maybe held together with a bit of duct tape, but still, here we are.

And so, just like that sunlight traveling all those miles through the blackness of space, somehow it’s just right.