infinitywaits


Crescendo.Rhythm.Rest.Melody

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A Jazzy Walk Home
infinitywaits
As I was walking down the crooked path to my home-experiencing the vast variety of sensations each one evoking a memory and a feeling that I can't place-I was inspired to write this journal. In my head the whimsical sound of Dead Can Dance spun golden thread around each sensation. The simultaneous squish of mud and crunch of leaves against the bottom of my shoes, the scent of the rain mixed with the memory of season's past, and the simple act of walking avoiding muddy and slippery(yet longing for the wonder and the laughter a mere slip would incite as a child) seemed to be enough in those moments to shatter my heart into a thousand or more pieces. I experienced a longing like no other.

Nostalgia seems to be the best word for this experience, this constant experience that takes over me and breaks my heart a thousand times a spring day. However, I would compare it to listening to soft, somber, or sentimental jazz melodies. Yes it is exactly like an instrumental that encompasses every delicate feeling without saying a word. Instead, letting notes trigger emotions just like the scent of the rain and the squish of the mud triggered memories of childhood innocence, love, and wonder. Exactly like the sound of two scuffling squirrels inches away from filled me with awe and fright at once. Each snap shot, each note in the symphony of my walk home reminded me of a different jazz peace whether it be Miles Davis's It Never Entered my Mind, Or Coltrane's Naima or In a Sentimental Mood.

Oh how a part of me longs for the simplicity of child hood and the wonder of learning a new thing. Maybe it was my obliviousness towards life's infinite pattern that made each sensation so intense. The first time I noticed the scent of the rain, the first time I longed for someone, the first time my heart had been broken, the first time I felt alone, the first time I played in the rain or danced without feeling dirty, and the only times I did not have a personal reference point for these experiences were all evoked by the mere drizzle that fell during my walk home. I actually enjoyed it walking extra slow allowing the blocks to my house to morph into memory lane. I took on a new adult persona as time traveler. In those moments on my walk home I traveled a path to my childhood,my heart home, and the resting place of every youthful excitement, dream, scheme, plan, epiphany, and experience inspired by spring rain, nurtured by innocence, and facilitated by curiosity. Yet, in the afterglow of my golden moment i experience a new sensation called bitter sweet. Bitter sweet is what thoughts of my walk home evoke because I can only travel to my heart home in my mind for I am no longer curious, no longer innocent, and no longer a child.
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