The Night Before

Every voyage has a night before. These quiet hours of darkness before the journey begins.

We tend to remember the excitement of the next morning, when our senses are on edge, hyper-aware and it's easy to be anchored in the now. This is why we remember so clearly the smell of salt on the air, the soft pad of bare feet on the deck, the sound of water slapping the hull. Or maybe it's clatter of wheels on the rails, the soft sway of sleeper cars in the early morning light, the hum of jet engine, the first light as you pop up above the clouds.

All of these things mark beginnings.

Me, I like that night before. I like when you're still imagining what it might be like. Still trying to picture it all in your head, fit yourself into your own imagination. You're still the one at the helm. Tomorrow life will take over, steer you where it will, but that night before everything is possible.

The hardest voyage for me to imagine is my children. My son will come forth out of the world tomorrow. I try to picture what he looks like. It's marginally easier than it was with my daughters, since I can imagine he might look like they did. But he won't. Not really. Because it's impossible to conceive of what someone will look like before you meet them. Impossible, but fun to try.

It's likewise impossible to imagine what your life with them will be like, beyond knowing that it will be inconceivably great.

That's why there are these nights before, to reflect, to imagine, to remember that we are here to go. Forward. Onward. Always.

[Milky Way image by John Fowler, Flickr CC]