The Pace of Roses

The man stood alone late at night and watched the world go by. The same old thing without him, he thought, at least that was what he normally would’ve thought, but not these days, not anymore. He thought about a lot of different things, all the time. He liked to think a lot. It could backfire, easily—thinking. It usually did. But he was creative by nature, so it made sense. In order to create, one had to think, but more importantly, one had to feel. He was not in short supply of either. Creation was based on thoughts and feelings.

He had changed a lot growing up. That was natural, too, he supposed. He had felt a lot, hadn’t realized until recently how pessimistic and cynical he had been, how he had spent his life wrapped in such negativity for so many years. He had always been slightly melancholy, perplexed, prone to sadness, confusion, even despair. For years, those hopeless emotions had ruled his life. He knew what it was like to live without hope, to want to die, to bow out and just be done already. He didn’t want to go there again. It was a bleak and terrible place. He was not a bleak and terrible person was the funny thing. He thought he had been, but that was the delusion, the self-deception.

Inside, it was as if all the pieces had begun to slip into place. If he were made of metal, they would have made locking noises, all those pieces, like a giant machine. He noticed it a lot lately, mainly as he walked at night by himself. He felt good, and he passed a lot of people that might’ve made him feel sad before, empty, lonely, even envious. Nowadays, he could look at them and wish them well. He knew this and he could feel it in his heart, since it was the only thing he understood. If you couldn’t feel with sincerity, with the genuine authenticity of feeling, what was the point of living? He knew this, felt it, accepted it, and now every moment of his life was based on this one principle.

It was as if someone had dipped him in silver, or gold. He felt that solid and sure of himself now, which was a relief after all the years of tumult and screaming. A soul could scream in defiance. He had learned that recently, too. But when it screamed, it must have something pretty important to say, and the man had listened. He thought of it as alignment. Things had worked themselves out, found their proper place. Everything, it seemed to him, was right with the world—the planets, the stars, the breath in his body, the way he saw things. Maybe he had simply changed his perspective. But yes, even his own heart, his own mind, seemed one with the stars, the sea, the sun and the sky.

Despite it all, despite how beautiful, it was still strange. But he liked that it was strange. It was new, and he liked the feeling of new. It kept a smile on his face, and it felt good to smile. Looking back over the years, he would’ve never imagined this possibility. It was amazing. It was miraculous. He liked to think of it as sacred. It was simply life. As he looked back over the changes, it was amazing—miraculous—he had managed to live through it. A million times he could’ve died, and maybe should have, but he didn’t. He was still here. He was walking these streets, and he could’ve been bitter and sad about a lot of things, but his story was his story and no one else’s. Someone told him recently that his past was precious and he had never thought of it that way before. He had been too open, reckless with his history, and he saw the repercussions of that now. He had been taken advantage of, even betrayed. These days, he treasured it like the miracle it was. Because it was a miracle. It was his miracle and no one else’s. So yes, he had finally accepted his past, his beautiful, wonderful, magical, star-filled past, brimming with growth, knowledge, sounds of the sea, harmony, life, and even death. He had learned a lot. The misses, the failures, the frozen plights, shadows, obsessions, even madness. All of that had a purpose, and he would’ve never believed that before, either, that life had a purpose, that he had a purpose, but sometimes, you had to stop fighting your own beliefs, your own opinions and surrender to the sacred. So, that was what he did, and the results, once again, were miraculous. Ease could be miraculous. Simplicity could be magical. Breath was sacred. Not a bad way to spend the remaining years, which—if he were lucky—would be many still.

As he walked, he noticed another form of alignment that had to do with his body. His spine was erect, his head held high. He observed everything and everybody without judgment, and that alone seemed amazing. Everything was amazing. Jesus, if he wasn’t careful, he would make himself sick thinking how amazing everything was.

Walking, the man laughed to himself at the thought. But it was true, he watched everyone, observed the way they were dressed, the way they talked, the way they lived, the city life, the night music, the traffic, the revelry. It was simply what it was, nothing more, nothing less.

His step was slow, easy, as though walking any faster would make him miss it all. This was the pace of roses. This was the slow, idle curiosity that never rushed, never hurried. This was taking it all in so he wouldn’t miss a beat, so he could remember as much about it as he could. It was fresh air, the night breeze, the beautiful summer night and the laughter and gaiety all around. His thoughts, too, were the same. There was no fighting against himself. No screaming in there. Just the simple quiet thoughts of a placid mind, a heart beating its gentle rhythm. No wind, no rain, just the easy soughing through the trees. That was all.

It was everything he wasn’t used to, so vastly different than what the previous years had taught, that it took some amount of adjusting to realize it was real. It might take him his whole life. He was fine with that.

Could it be over, he thought? Could it really be over, at least the worst of it? All that cloudy black, that confusion, that neutral gray plain of nothingness and despair? All those things that had tied me down for years, scratched and clawed at my heart and soul, my mind, all that self-inflicted suffering and tumult…Could it really be over? Finally, after all those years?

It wasn’t a question, really, was the funny thing, just a statement, one he had to adjust to, like life, accept, and eventually he would, he knew. The answer, he supposed, if it was a question, was in the simple breath, the deep, infinite space in his mind where everything was easy, like a sibilant hum. It was, in fact, as if he had never been able to catch his breath until now. As though all this time, he had been trying to catch up with himself. He had been running too fast.

Enjoy, he thought. Slow down. Live. Love. Watch the water flow. Simplicity is magic, and magic is real. That is the sacred at work. That is the path I’m on, the path I follow.

He spent the next few minutes walking away from the busier thoroughfares and toward the park, the creek. He crossed a bridge and found a quiet bench under a lamppost by the water to sit down. Under the lamp, the water was black in the dark. He listened to the water, the distant traffic, a siren in the distance, watched a pair of lovers across the river walking hand in hand along the path. Even the street sweepers were out, the yellow lights brightening the trees. It was a busy night, but he was by himself, and he liked watching the water move along in the dark under the lamps, the sound it made over the rocks. His thoughts were quiet, except when another piece slipped into place, and the sound was like metal, like hydraulics, a vast and powerful machine, well-oiled and strong. He was in no hurry to get back home. He could stay here for a while, forever maybe, he thought, until the weather changed, until someone told him he had to go, just listening, just breathing, watching the water go by.