perspective.

In the last day and a half I’ve been reading The Art of Possibility (and will finish it before the night is done). I had heard about it from several people, and randomly enough, one of the co-authors (Benjamin Zander) is the director of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, which I sold subscription packages for during the long, penniless spring I spent in Medford.

It’s a difficult book to put a finger on, to sum up, or even to explain how I feel about it. But I like it. They’re naming “practices” and concepts and versions of the self, and I’m a bit lost trying to keep track of what is what. Nonetheless, the mere act of reading the book is entering into my subconscious and making me feel a sense of hope. It’s opening my eyes to all of the ways that my own perspective shapes my experiences, my struggles, and overall, the world that I live in.

I woke up early this morning, while J slept in, and I drank the better part of a french press of coffee while I read this book in the armchair tucked behind the Christmas tree and under the window, while the sun came up. Then we set out early in the day and drove to Virginia to visit two Goodwill stores on the hunt for records. We hit the jackpot in Falls Church, coming home with Phil Collins, Merle Haggard, Carole King, and a John Denver album sleeve that actually contained The Who (and though I do like John Denver, The Who is better). And there was also The Firebird, which we saw live last month, and which I’ve been thinking of since, and which I’m listening to right now.

For lunch, we found a strange little Afghan restaurant tucked away in suburbia, mostly empty, with dingy white tablecloths and a very young server wearing a bow tie. It was perfect and delicious and we talked about the next week and the next year while we ate.

I nearly didn’t write tonight, nearly talked myself out of it, but I overcame that and a hundred other distractions. Not to write something magnificent, but to show up nonetheless.