The Moment of Truth

It seemed like a long drive. After spending nearly 16 hours in an airplane, this should not have been my sentiment, and yet, as I took in building after building I could not help but watch, with intrigue, each drop of precipitation start with a smack on the window, swell to magnify the Irish world in its bubble, and then slide down to join the pool that preceded it. As we drove through the city I thought to myself, “I expected to feel different” as I watched the overcast sky cast a familiar light on townhomes and office buildings as if I had traveled twenty-one hours only to end up at home. “Too much like Washington” I lamented. Instead of looking at the new things, I was focused on the old things; things that I had looked at through the window of my kitchen from the time that I was barely tall enough to reach the sill to when I was tall enough to sit in it. The white homes with a tree out front, the nondescript office buildings with windows for no more than three stories, and a Starbucks with a little old couple drinking their morning cup of coffee. There were little signs, foreshadowing what would soon come, but I didn’t see it at the time. I was used to green but never this shade. Even as it blurred by, I could see the green. The healthy, native grass grew anywhere and everywhere that it was allowed to, springing up in cracks on the sidewalk, or between the opposing freeways. As we moved to downtown, things looked old, as if they had weathered the tests of time and the storms of advancement and modernization. “This is somewhat expected. Europe is supposed to be old.” I thought to myself.

Slowly, as the bus seemed to crawl forward, things began to change. It was right about then that I slipped the small buds into my ears, trying to find some piece of music that would fit how I was feeling.  The first song that my finger found was “Truth” by Balmorhea, from their album All is Wild, All is Silent. It was then that the soundtrack to one of the biggest “A-Ha” moments in my life began to play. The violin played the four full, rich, but simple notes that constructed the main melody. I’d listened to this song many times before but had never noticed that the cello and bass provided a thick support system for the melody. The music was pleasant, but in a haunting and hesitant manner, matching the feelings I was dealing with at the moment. The song went from simple to complex as I took in melody after melody. The melodies began to build upon themselves in layers that blended so well that it took much concentration to decipher each one from among the others. The electric guitar and drums began to pulse in my ear and then the complexity suddenly released, emptied out, and pulled back as the piano made its solo entrance as if to say, “there’s still more that needs to be said.” The music flowed into a non-traditional harmony as the independent melodies returned and blended together to create a resonant and active river of music. As the music ebbed back and forth in its development and transitioned between melodies, crescendos, and decrescendos, there was a small start of anticipation in me, but also a hesitation. Had I built this experience up in my mind for years only to have it disappointed? Was this the feeling I would fight off for the next month?

Then, it was as if I had been in a tunnel, holding my breath for no apparent reason. It was as if my ability to hold my breath for this long meant winning the game, but was really simply for the sake of normalcy and ritual.   And home was gone. But this departure of home was not scary or sad, but brought with it a feeling of accomplishment and relief. As I emerged from the tunnel, it was as if I finally released my breath only to have it taken away by what I saw.  The active piano and cello melody pulsed in my ear as the rhythm moved from slow and hesitant to pressing forward towards each note. As the song came to its climax, suddenly there were hills. Hills stretched across the expanse of the horizon, moving in a steady, rolling wave past where my eyes could decipher them. Each one filled with the same green that I saw snaking between the tracks of the metro, but multiplied. I had never seen so many shades of one color and yet it was the farthest thing from the monotonous green that, in my mind, infiltrated my own home. By then the music was progressing in my ears and growing stronger with each shade of green I noticed. My growing excitement was reflected in the accelerando in the music. As the violin cast its descant on the piece and the drums began their steady beat, I saw deep and rich hunter greens melted together with spring, olive, and fern and then slowly lightening to a bright lime that I had never seen in nature. It was then, in the full climax of the song, when all the instruments and all the melodies came together and peaked in a full and steady gallop, that I realized what I was about to embark on in the next month.

To this day, “Truth” is almost like a speech to me, blaring at me to listen. It begins with a hesitant introduction of the melody, given in terms that are easy to understand, but with creeping undertones that make the build-up inevitable. My journey to Europe with my sister began in the same way. It began as a hesitant introduction of the idea. A “wouldn’t it be fun if…” while riding a bicycle on a sunny Sunday afternoon. There were ebbs and flows as plans were thwarted and also placed into full motion. Each roadblock came with a new melody introduced and something new to get excited about. The sting of my parents saying no was a sudden emptying out of our plans, but just like that, a new opportunity presented itself and the idea surged forward with determination. Just like the song, as we began to elaborate upon our “melody” it became more set in stone and more pressing. This moment, as I stared out the window at God’s beautiful Irish countryside, was the climax. It was the start to the adventure that was to come and the reward for every piece that went into the journey, from the introduction of an idea, to its fulfillment.

Twenty-five days of experiences like this one. Traveling around to new countries with new colors and new sites mixed with old buildings and rich history. They say that the world is a book, and if you do not travel, you are only reading a page of the book. In this moment in Ireland, I found this to be true. The world seemed huge, but also much smaller. Huge because I knew that I could never go far enough. The number of countries I would visit would always be insufficient to meet the need that I had for the incredible feeling that I was blessed to experience.  Small, because God wrote the book of the world in such a way that it was all suddenly connected. What seems ordinary to some creates an encounter with Him for others that is immeasurable. I realized that what I viewed as monotonous or dull in my own home had possibility to take the breath of others. It was amazing to me that someone could live in these places and have a normal life with everything around them, but I realized how many people must say the same thing about where I live. My trip gave me a new appreciation, not only for new places, but also for my own home.

As the song slowed down to just the piano and the moment came to a close, I settled in to my seat and a sigh spread my lips as they formed into a smile. A smile that I believe said everything that was going through my head. A smile that said how incredibly joyful I was to be reading another page in God’s book. A book that was ambiguous to most, unreachable and difficult to read extensively.  A book that was ready to be analyzed, or in the least, read. A book that would never end but continue telling a story that captivates anyone who will take the leap and open it to find the truth.

Works Cited

Balmorhea. “Truth.” All is Silent, All is Wild. Western Vinyl, 2009. Compact Disc.