Sometimes a Picture Doesn’t Last Longer
The other night, 12 wonderful gay men gathered around our table for my spaghetti, Ray’s lemon cupcakes, and a riotous game of Mexican Train (dominoes). We laughed until we cried, all but three without a drop of alcohol. Those who drank had one glass of wine. The humor came from our playful hearts.
Once during the evening, I raised my tumbler of water to toast “this table of incredibly beautiful gay men.” More than once, I stopped participating in the silly banter, sat back, and tried to take a mental picture of the image I hoped would nurture me later when moments might seem less joyful.
I do that a lot – stare at something for awhile with the hope that I can capture the magical beauty of the scene – the moon shimmering over the water that I spot in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom, the smell of lilac I pull to my nose as I’m on my morning walk, and the giggles of delight of the eight-year-old boy behind the boat who has just gotten up on skis for the first time. I stare but, in truth, I can’t always remember it later. Sometimes, I sadly agree with the sassy admonition of the person unhappy with being eyed, “Take a picture. It lasts longer.” The caveat is that you have to stay focused. A picture without a clear memory is only a picture.
I was riding in the car this morning with John Corvino, the very bright 40-year-old professor of ethics at Wayne State University who has captured the hearts and minds of thousands of college students with his boyish good looks and sharp mind as he has spoken on the morality of homosexuality or the naturalness of gay marriage. I was giving him a quick tour of the National Seashore that borders Provincetown, MA, which he was visiting for the first time with his life partner Mark. I had regrettably distracted him with the question of where he would like to be in 10 years, but I was wanting him to take in the majestic beauty of the rolling sand dunes, scrub pines, and white- capped blue sea surrounding us.
“Be sure to spend the next ten years taking in these extraordinary moments,” I said, knowing full well that had someone said the same thing to me when I was 40 I too would have only half-heard the counsel. At that age, my mind was mostly on how I was doing in my desire for personal and professional success rather than on the mutterings of an “old timer” on the need to stop and smell the roses. And yet, if I have learned anything of true value in these 61 years, it is the importance of stopping to smell, see, hear, taste and feel the moment and to reflect on its uniqueness. You can take a picture to make the scene last longer, but if you don’t really take in the moment, the picture can’t truly capture it for you.
Despite our differences in age, not just between John and me, but also between me and many of the men who were having such fun around the dinner and game table, calling the attention of others to what is happening at the moment is nevertheless a gift to me and to them. It allows me to articulate and capture a moment in words, if not in pictures, and it allows them the opportunity to reflect, if they choose, on something someone else has noticed.
Sometimes, when we’re watching television, Ray will look over and observe that my eyes are roaming the room.
“What are you thinking about?” he’ll ask.
“Do you see how the colors gold and red travel together around the room from that fabric, to the wall paint, to than bowl, to that lamp, and to that painting? It’s beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t have noticed it if you hadn’t said something,” he will reply with a smile, and then return his attention to the program he was watching.
My awareness is most keen when my time is limited. You’d think the opposite would be true. But when I’m aware that I have limited time left with a place or with a person, it’s more likely that I’ll focus on what’s going on beyond the activity at hand.
“Have you ever tried lime on watermelon?” Ken asked as people helped themselves to a slice to accompany their lemon cupcake during the dominoes game. “It’s really good.”
“I have a lime,” I said. “I’ll slice it.” The twelve of us then each took a piece of the lime and squeezed it on their watermelon.
“Oh, wow, this is great,” we each said as we tried it.
I smiled broadly and then laughed.
“What’s funny?” someone asked.
“Can you imagine a table of 12 straight men talking about how good lime on watermelon tastes?” I asked. They thought about it too and laughed at their awareness of how uniquely safe and valued we felt with each other.
The evening ended soon after. I wish I had a picture of us all at the table with the watermelon. But I and they all have a flash of a memory that for an instant we were aware of how good life can be, and maybe that feeling of gratefulness will be recalled as one of the highlights of our very different journeys.
“It’s bigger and more meaningful than a standing ovation, or an award, or making a lot of money,” I said to John as we drove through the sand dunes. “Appreciating the joy of the moment is what I have found to be the most important success in my life.”
