In January, I saw a Francis Bacon exhibition in Dublin. Everything about that day was perfect, at least now when I look back it was, from the mushroom soup in the museum’s cafe, to the damp weather that was just the right amount of cold and the visual feast of Bacon’s life work that was in front of me to savor.
The day I had in Dublin is exactly what Lou Reed is referring to when he sings “Perfect Day.”
I hadn’t experienced euphoria like that for a while. The last time it happened before Dublin, I had been in Barcelona. It was humid. We took a walk in the afternoon to Las Rambla, the Sunset Blvd. equivalent to this Spanish city. La Boqueria, a large public market was our first stop. When you first walk in, there are so many colors, so many edible, beautiful things that you don’t know what to do with yourself. It is impossible to come out of there without buying something, anything, just so you can take a piece of the beauty along with you. We bought a bag of by-the-pound candy, full of strawberry belts and raspberry hearts and headed to the dock. It was humid and the smell of salt was floating in the air. We sat on concrete steps, a bag full of edible joy next to us and watched the waves and seagulls dance together.
It was a moment frozen in time, just like Dublin. It was a perfect day, not because I was traveling, or even because I was feeding my sweet tooth, but because above all things, that day symbolized contentment. I wanted no more, or no less. I was ok just being.
And unexpectedly, it happened again today, even though I wasn’t soaking up life in a European city thousands of miles away from home.
We drove through Echo Park and ended up in Silver Lake. It was too late to get any work done for my story and after a stressful week, all I wanted to do was have dinner and a cup of tea and only worry about the next two or three hours instead o the next two or three years.
A vegan pizza and chai soy latte later, we climbed up the windy streets to find the car. And then it happened. Everything was beautiful. The streets were quiet, the sky had almost sucked the sun dry and there was just enough light to see the murals on the wall. The air was flowered by the smell of fresh laundry. I couldn’t stop sniffing. It felt ok to breathe again, even though this particular moment’s euphoria only lasted a few minutes.
It was ok.
I needed that moment more than I ever have before. At a time when I’m faced with uncertainty, with decision-making that will impact my life, I needed a few minutes of bliss. I can’t stop thinking about the novel that changed my views on life, “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.” I wish I could know the impact of the decisions I’m about to make. I wish I knew what I will be faced with. But I don’t.
“We can never know what we want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.”
We can never know says Milan Kundera. This idea rings truer today than it ever has before. So much so, that I really feel its unbearable quality under my skin. I need more beautiful moments, one every few years just isn’t enough. I need happiness and contentment. I need to make a few life-altering decisions, I just wish I knew what they would lead to.
