In my apartment above the hallway junction, I have a metal piece of artwork spelling out the word onism. I had it made a few years ago. The word definitely came to me, walking the beautiful streets of houses in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. I walked mile after mile of the surrounding area, seeing the neighborhoods in a way that even the inhabitants have forgotten to experience. It bemuses me that we visit other places to find newness and beauty and others come to our little corners to do the same. The word onism is supposed to describe the unknowable about the world and our own internal realization that we can’t really know the world. I’ll put a link in the comments to demonstrate the mood the word is supposed to evoke. Most people who watch the video find themselves a little untethered by the realization that there are 197 million square miles to explore and almost 8 billion people living around them.

Because I can’t evoke a word like ‘onism’ without mentioning another, I’ll also put in a link for ‘avenoir.’ It’s impossible to absorb the words without understanding that we seem to live with so many of our priorities backward.

I went to Valley Green (Wissahickon Park) during my trip to Pennsylvania, a nature-filled historical spot. It’s one of Ruth’s favorite spots, anchored by both beautiful and bittersweet memory. Another place I’ve never been to and one I’ll likely not see again. A pop-up thunderstorm cut the visit short. But even the rain brought its own message. We were supposed to go with one purpose in mind, but the mercurial way people are morphed the visit into something else. You have to be okay with that. Because so many things in life are exactly like that. You can plan and set out a blueprint only to find that the happy accidents; hell, even the unhappy ones, sometimes filter glimpses into surprising slices of both people and the world. Though we went with a pre-planned objective, it was one which went unrealized. Admiring history, I found introspection.

I have a couple of pictures of us at the beautiful spot in the valley, canopied by immense trees. The sunlight quickly yielded to darkness and impending rain. We walked along the creek, bemused by the ducks and careful of the cyclists enjoying the incredible nature-wrapped trails cutting through the park. I could spend days there, lost in the old trees and history. Within fifteen minutes of taking the picture of the sky, the storm had rolled in, darkening the valley and rendering the canopy of trees as a noir version of a different place. As we drove away, the storm swayed the trees and dropped little limbs onto us.

I didn’t see the Liberty Bell, the Rocky Statue, or Independence Hall. But I did stand in a history-filled valley, looking up at the trees and the sun which overlook it. Though the person whose life was cut short by squandering his last chances wasn’t there, I was. His absence was supposed to be the catalyst for our visit. He lost track of the essential beauty of being alive and instead focused on the tragedy of life and let it swallow him. Anyone who can’t relish the smallest of moments and appreciate being alive is missing the treasure of present-moment life.

Later in the trip, I had the pleasure of having Rita’s water ice for the first time, thanks to my de facto mother-in-law Ruth. Though the name derives from the creator’s wife and is a nickname for Italian ice, it’s something that we don’t have anywhere. That’s a loss for everyone because it both soothes and stimulates the taste buds. Also, if you’re in Philly, you have to pronounce the word ‘water’ like you’ve bit your tongue: w-u-d-d-e-r. I devoured my allegedly large serving like a zoological gorilla. Yes, I literally drooled at one point, much to the delight of both Ruth and Erika.

It was odd to see that the sun rises earlier on the east coast. I was awake for each sunrise, having already wandered the quiet, dark streets. Twice I was in the heated pool as the sun found its way out, even through the wildfire-fueled haze. Though I’m back to normal life again, I feel a slight sense of irreality, an unused synonym for dreaminess or untethered awareness. I’ve tucked the moments away already, hoping they’ll fail to dissipate as life intrudes further.

Love, X

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