A Kind Of Perfection

Thunder booms overhead, striking out across the air with an intensity that shakes the bones; rain sets in. Drops pound the windows making their unseen presence known in the darkness. Out in the night, the grass still stands green despite it being almost the middle of August. These rains are more than welcome after such a near disastrous period of drought that occurred not so many years ago. Such sounds as these remind me of some of the most favorite settings in my life: sitting out on covered porches listening to and watching the rain as music played in the background, or sometimes just sitting inside with a good book, a glass of wine, and a screen door open as the rains fell. I could not have imagined the devices I read on now, but I  am seriously considering a return to printed books only. (A strange thing to say for someone who only publishes electronically.)

Recently I've kind of missed the feeling of closing a hardback novel after the last page has been read. You can't replace the weight of a well-told tale by simply turning off a screen. Holding a book is like holding a soul between the palms of your hands: a beautiful, well-crafted rendition of effort, full of what has been trial and error, resolved into a refinement of something one seeks to attain but often fails to achieve in the living body, a kind of perfection.

Somewhere along the way I had forgotten the feeling of completing such an experience. All wrapped up in the instant gratification of convenience, I almost forgot what it was like to walk through those aisles admiring the lives that sit on shelves, awaiting discovery. I think while lost in the speed of the times, I simply let certain senses grow numb. And some of those senses are pretty important to hang onto.

As the rain slows in intensity, so too do these words. Even as environmental conditions across ten thousand years have given rise to our ability to fly (in a literal sense and metaphorical one), I do think it's important to ground oneself from time to time. It would be a shame to spend a life plugged in and not unplug, open a real door, and feel the rain upon the skin.