Surprise Me

It was a Covid conversation. Sara and I were weary of it all-- the rules, the routine, the feeling of being hemmed in and caged. And then she said something that stuck in my head for days.

“I just want to be surprised. I haven’t been surprised for a long time.”

Sometimes it’s not the act itself, but the suddenness, the left field fly ball, the bombs-away risk that engages our senses, that makes us feel alive. That wall slider kiss. The discovered trail that that led to a swim hole on a hot summer day. The break in storm clouds revealing the towering massif of Mount Shuksan in excruciating glory. The savory bean soup from a food truck instead of the same old pedestrian sandwich bought at the grocery store deli because it was safe. Fast. Sure. Nothing but habit driven.

I began measuring the small surprises in my days. Sometimes there were few. I rose at the same time, drank my coffee, wrote in my journal, made task lists, rowed, then worked at the computer while the rain fell. Hours later I’d distract myself for no good reason by looking up the Spanish word for sunrise (salida del sol—excursion or start of the sun) which led me to sunset (puesta del sol—tuning of the sun, like recalibrating an old instrument I mused) which was next to the word superb (estupenda!), which brought me to marvel at other languages’ biphasic naming to lend nuance and depth instead of the metallic clipped syllables of English. Which would I rather watch: the tuning of a celestial dusk, or a sunset? I pondered this, maybe looking for surprises in a common day, but that’s just it: you can’t impose surprise. It’s mixed up with bewilderment or awe or curiosity, but it’s always the uninvited guest who shows up, drinks your best wine, lingers too late, and tells the best stories.

Sometimes a day is filled with surprises that trip you up, that fill you with fear or rage.  It can be a pivot from a hard-held opinion, a slip on ice, hearing the truth about your so-called manners, the news of a death. It’s also in a loon’s haunting call across the bay; in Africa, the lion in the tall grass watching me pee and as I sauntered back blind without my contacts, PW’s roar ‘Nancy! Climb into the roof tent. NOW!; A child’s question that made me pause: “Nana when I grow up will I still be India? Will I still be me?” I gulped at that one and felt tears rising from nowhere. I hope you are, my darling girl, I wanted to say. I wish you always to be the wild and wondrous India with hands on skinny hips facing a world of lions hiding in the grass. 

There are more surprises outside than anywhere else for me. Everything is unpredictable: weather, animals, flora, smells, my footing on shale. Surprise at the panoramic view from the top of a mountain, the unexpected consolation on a bad day in a run down a trail, the sweep of avalanche lilies in a swale. The senses are more acute outdoors, the rules different—we are visitors not masters of what is before us. Outside my feelings can expand to the size of the sky where I’m more aware without distraction, and in that expansion are answers and discoveries of what it means to be human, even in the dark times of a pandemic or the tarry grief in losing a loved one. I need a big enough space to hold it all.  I need to go out the back door to find it.

Surprise me.
Amaze me.
Bring me to my knees.
Lose the map.
Turn up the music.

Last night I was in the kitchen slicing pears to roast with salt when the Rolling Stones “Miss You” came on the stereo. 

“Great song,” PW said, turning up the music far too loud.

“Let’s dance,” he said turning me from my task to face him.

Now I have a particular routine before dinner parties. I want everything finished before people arrive. I set the table, lay out the appetizers, prepare the fish. I fill vases with flowers, find the right play list on the stereo, take a quick shower. The guests were arriving shortly. There was much left to do and not enough time to complete the lockstep to the Perfect Dinner Party.  

…Oh everybody waits so long
Oh baby, why you wait so long?
Won't you come on, come on…

We danced. 

Photo Credit: Fiona Margo Photography