Intangibles

The wind was singing me a song as it whipped through the rigging. I walked slowly through the line of moored boats, enjoying the tune. Each rope made a slightly different tone as the wind whistled past it, and together, all the different sounds made up one wild, haunting melody. I wanted to put words to that melody, but I hadn't a scrap of paper nor a pencil to write with. Crumbs! I'd forgotten again.

There seems to be a limit on the number of things I can remember. And, since I had remembered my jacket, camera, and shoes, it naturally followed that I had forgotten the notebook and pencil. It was a pity, too. I was walking through one of my favorite types of country: salt marsh. Flat, empty land, carpeted in varying shades of green and dotted by brilliant blue rivers and pools. Overhead, the sun shone down through drifting banks of cumulus clouds. Between earth and sky there walked a strong wind that brought the savor of salt to my nostrils.

Everything inspired me. The colors, the wind, the gulls screaming overhead, the cloud shadows chasing across the land...I wanted to write about them all. I consoled myself with the thought that I would 'store it all up for later' and write out my inspirations when I got back home. But now the magic is gone, and even my fertile imagination can not quite conjure it up again. I could write a bit of poetry about gulls and wind, but I would not be able to capture the aliveness of it all. Perhaps, though, it is just as well this way.  Could un-talented little me really hope to capture something so intangible and imprison it in a cage of words? My almost boundless optimism would have me attempt it, but, deep down inside, the voice of realism is saying 'don't even try.'

It makes me a little sad that intangibles must remain so...intangible. Vague but strong feelings and influences that I will never fully understand. But that, I suppose, is what makes them so alluring. I can not explain things like honor, love, or freedom. But do I even want to? Would an explanation brush the glistening feathers from their wings, leaving them drab and commonplace? Would life truly be life if the inexplicable were explained? Wouldn't it lose most of its allure?

So, in the end, I suppose I can be thankful that I forgot my notebook today. Instead of gnawing on a pencil stub as I tried to describe the indescribable, I had quite a nice walk. And, in the end, I believe that realism has gotten a good grip on me and taught me a thing or two.