Don’t Call Me Shirley

On beautiful nights, romanticism, and the magic of silence.

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I just had the most lovely night at my pond.

After a friend cancelled our plans this evening, I went for a walk to avoid sitting at home and allowing myself to get grouchy, and I am so grateful to have had this night.

The weather here is humid–which is strange. Our heat is always sweltering, but dry. The sky is often that cloudless blue that goes on uninterrupted forever aside from a far away sun hanging in a corner of the blue. My skin often feels like it’s in a toaster oven set on broil in our usual heat. But not tonight.

This heat was the kind that makes you feel like you’re swimming in the air, the kind that has low hanging clouds that seem to threaten to shower you with thick warm drops. This kind of heat breathed life into nostalgia for playing hide-and-go-seek on a summer night years ago with my old neighborhood kids. I switched my music to my oldies playlist, early 60’s and late 50’s Duwop music–my favourite when I was a kid as I walked.

As I approached my pond, I kept my eyes on the sky. The clouds were going a sort of yellow colour, and I expected lightening or thunder to crack at any moment. A depressed thought slipped into my mind, still bitter about my friend cancelling on me, with my luck lightning will strike me even when it’s not raining.

I shushed the thought away, but the bitterness lingered. As I came around a bend on the path and my pond came into view, my depression died a quick death.

There was a complete rainbow tucked behind the trees bordering my pond. Beneath the arc like shower curtains hung the yellowing clouds, and above like an artist had begun but left the brush-stroke unfinished were the broken remnants of another rainbow. Yes, it was a double rainbow and I was the guy in the YouTube video freaking out over it.

I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to stop and look at a rainbow and actually appreciate it. Not since I was a kid, surely. But here was a rainbow, on this gorgeous humid night, over my pond, light of my life, fire of my loins.

What was more, on the opposite side of the pond, the sun was setting, like melted copper painting the spaces between the leaves.

The heat of the day broke and it was as if someone above threw little rain drops like scattering glitter. They touched my skin, cooling me before dissolving into the air. Just as quickly as the rain started, it stopped.

I sat on the bank of the water and just looked, and listened, and breathed.

Further down, I watched as a family moved to sit on the rocks of the water to watch the sunset, and my heart swelled. I was alone, but I wasn’t–not really. This beauty was shared.

On a different night not quite so magnificent as this, I snapchatted a photo of the sunset to my former beau, teasing him that it would be a perfect night for a date if we were still dating (there has been a never ending flirtation and sexual tension between him and I, so the snap was not out of the ordinary). He responded that we could still watch the sunset together, not touching on our new estranged status.

I thought of this as I looked out at the sunset with the rainbow and sheet of clouds behind me and realized that I didn’t want him there with me.

He would likely have been chatting, making jokes and making me blush, and somehow the breaking of the silence would have broken the magic of the night.

I’ve been realizing more and more that what I want in a partner is someone who reflects the parts of me that I like most (Narcissism? You tell me. I mean…we are talking about a pond, here). In that moment I wanted someone artistic and contemplative.

I’m one of those kinds of people who always have at least one person in love with them. At least, they think they’re in love. On paper, I look like perfection. I’m educated, a bit of a nerd (but not too nerdy), I’m okay on the eyes, I work out (but not too much), and I’m the kind of awkward that’s charms people into woosy fools. I can also reference Lolita, Narcissus, and Airplane in one conversation, and don’t you get me started on quoting Anchorman and how Brick killed a guy. I seem to be so easy to love. It’s not until I let people get close that they realize that, Oh, I guess depression and anxiety can’t be fixed with compliments. Who knew? And I either make them walk the plank or they jump ship. I can’t blame them.

But right now I’m learning how to be happy with myself. I felt good that I didn’t want my ex there with me. It was a victory, and my reward was the beauty I got to see and breathe in. With this new optimism, I let myself dream.

I dreamed of someone who could sit next to me on that bank, and look out at a night like that and know that we don’t need to speak. It was someone that I wouldn’t need to worry about making uncomfortable with my own silence because the silence is beautiful, and they’d know that. I wanted someone who understands that it’s not their job to fix me, but who is kind, and empathetic, but also able to put me in my place when I need it. I wanted someone with the eyes of an artist who, on our walk back after the sun had set and the rainbow had faded into grey, would see not just trees, but the way the lamp light made the arc of leaves above us glow like magic.

Call me a romantic, but don’t call me Shirley.

 

The pictures below were taken at the same time like two sides of a polished penny.

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Snapchat-1524683643

 

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