There is a certain spine tingling elation that exists in the bubble of time when something stops and something new is about to begin. It is a pregnant pause before something new is born and the world's frenzied reaction to it begins. The calm before the storm has always held an appeal for me, energy gathering in the warm dusky night, waiting for the crack of lightning that will signal the heavens to open up. It is like a gasp, with the remembrance of all that came before it, and all that will be lost when the air is released, and words or actions flow out with it. Then there is that moment when the lights come down and the orchestra pauses from their chaotic, melodic warm ups and you know the show is about to begin. Or the tension of two opposing armies lined up and tensed, but not yet begun to fight, still waiting for the twang of a bow that will decide fates. No man is dead yet, nothing is destroyed, the adrenaline of fear pools in their muscles, and they know a release is coming, but not what pain or victory will come with it.
The problem with loving the silent moment before the world changes is that it is almost impossible to realize which moment is the one before the end. It takes a vaccum, sucking the rest of the world away, so that one is forced to stop and look around in order to realize it and cherish it. Before the tumult and horror of World War I came an idyllic summer, and the world didn't know it. Early mornings are good for this appreciation, and the seconds when the movie has not yet begun, as the production companies show their logos, getting you excited for the movie you’re about to enjoy. When you’re sitting on an airplane, waiting for take off, and you can feel the engines girding up, like the muscles of a lion bunching together for the leap. And then suddenly the ground falls away and you’re unexplainably airborne. And you’re off, on an adventure, beginning life in a new world.
This time next week I will be in Berlin. That adventure will have begun.
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