Our regular writer for the 8th, Nard Choi, is indisposed. Here’s a lovely piece from our vault, albeit not specifically beast-themed. Thanks, Elaine!
And why should we not escape?
I was between blue and gold in the sunshine and curving around mountains. The day was sighing out, and the fatigue of travel pushed my foot harder against the gas than it probably should have once we reached the coast. I could see why the sky felt so blue. The ocean stretched. Oceans always stretch, but this one stretched and then curved into the hazy distance, sparkles on its cheeks as it licked at the rocks. I drove above the splashings, smooth and winding, the wind in my hair and the sun setting over me. Somewhere in front of us was Christchurch and somewhere behind us all of the miles of the north island: the grey of Whangarei, the rolling hills of Hobbiton, the volcanic springs and steaming water of Taupo, and the golden wheat grass waving us by.
There are moments that are perfect—even as the sun shines a little too bright in your eyes or, as it dips behind the mountains to the west, the road becomes chill. There are moments that are perfect because of their imperfections, and though people aren’t perfect, perhaps for a moment they are—the afternoon sun coming in through the windows onto dark hair, a smile, a breath of freedom to remember a coastal road and throw off the days of dull office work sandwiched by icy fingers frozen on the steering wheel in the dark of the morning and the late night. There are memories that might not be photographs, but better. They are moving and still.
Still moving memories keeping us moving.
Why should we not escape to them?
To those warm summer nights or to cold moments of clarity—we should always go there when the haze of endless drudgery is bumming a ride on our backs or spending the night, the week, the month on our couch. I dream of the New Zealand road when my friend tells me about her husband’s affair. I try to remember the gold and the blue and the rushing wind instead of the soundlessness of broken—broken something. We don’t have a word for it. Instead we have “trust” or “optimism” or “naiveté” or “idealism,” but it is none of those things and all of them at once. Gone.
Gone on ahead or behind to infect those a little bit younger, a bit stronger. Those who still live in those warm summer nights like I used to—having to pee so badly that my eyes watered and not daring to go home for fear of being made to stay inside and eat my dinner instead of playing until nighttime obscured my way back to the garage door. There is nothing mature about shutting the door on warm, summer nights. Why should we not escape to that?
Our regular writer for the 8th, Nard Choi, is indisposed. Here’s a lovely piece from the vault, albeit not specifically “beast” themed. Thanks, Elaine!
But to those parts of us that are still younger and stronger, eager and wholehearted, to the infected ones, those ones with the whole bloody, beautiful world waiting for them: You are the word shakers, the meaning-makers. The insiders into unspoiled beauty. The creators of escape. And you must not leave the rest of us behind.
At the end of that New Zealand road that wound its way down the coast between mountains and sea splashes, gold and blue and windy, was an antique hostel with dirty sheets and a broken washing machine, an overpriced bar and some undercooked ramen for dinner. I couldn’t fall asleep because the band playing open mic across the street was singing flat and the thin windows couldn’t shut out them or the night chill. I can’t remember what song they played, but it was outdated and a little catchy. I may have hummed along as I lay there, tapping my toes against the sheets, thinking about the day’s beauty and the long road waiting for me tomorrow.
Elaine Schnabel (’11) spent her twenties traveling, blogging, and earning various master’s degrees. Now earning her PhD at the University of North Carolina in organizational communication, Elaine researches and writes at the intersection of religion and communication. You can find her blogging at Religious (Not Crazy).
