My morning routine varies little from day to day. I walk the dog, eat breakfast at the kitchen counter with Katie and Matt, and then settle in for a day at the computer. And because I work mostly from home, I have learned that little walks into the outside world are important for psychological well-being. So before I begin attempting to put sentences together, I walk over to a little coffee shop in my neighborhood, and chat with the folks behind the counter.
The coffee shop is on the other side of the historic Chesapeaker & Ohio Canal from my house. Whenever in season, tourists line up to take a slow boat, if not to India, at least into the 19th century.
One warm day last fall, I turned the corner to see one of the boatmen sitting alone on the boat, bathed in early-morning light. He was playing the violin. The scene stopped me in my tracks. What I witnessed could only be described as a perfect moment. Ten seconds at most. But months later I still remember just standing there, watching, listening, and taking it all in.
We all have such moments put before us. Little surprises. Whether we're wise enough to see them is another thing.
I thought of the violin man one Sunday afternoon while reading the biographies of those killed in the Columbia incident. The specialist Laurel Clark, talking from the shuttle a few days before it was to land, said it was blissful to see the simple unexpected wonders of space, like a sunset. "There's a flash; the whole payload bay(有效载重舱) turns this rosy pink," she said. "It only lasts about 15 seconds, and then it's gone."
I once had a friend who had a strange habit that never stopped to amuse me, maybe because I never quite knew when she was going to spring it on me. It could come in the middle of a particularly lively dinner with old friends. Suddenly, she'd say, "Stop! I want to remember this moment." I realize now, after her death, what wise advice that is.
