Aching & Art

Fireworks make me ache.

The night of July 4, we sat on a patch of grass at the corner of Lamar and Riverside, watching heaven-bound comets force their way upward, then burst in ecstasy against the night sky. The explosions, accompanied by rifle-like pops, were followed by almost involuntary “ahhhhs!” from the crowd. The high tenor of child voices played like a descant above it all.
Then, too swiftly for my hungry eyes and ears to ingest, the voices stopped and the fireworks shimmered into death. The fireworks’ smoky-gray carcasses rode the winds: lifeless remains of creatures on a celestial sea.

Such experiences—what C. S. Lewis called “joy”—feel like promises breathed just too low for me to be quite sure I heard them. Traditional wisdom like “live in the moment” or “grab for the gusto” doesn’t reach me in this place near tears. Instead, I do what I am trying to do here—I seek to make hope-born art: a thank-you gift for what has been and for promises of might yet be.

How do you respond to experiences of “joy?”