The Sound Of A Clock

(March 1, 2022)

There are a few things in life that always sound the same; a clock, for example, is one of them. No matter where you are or what type of clock it is, a clock is a clock, and so it sounds as such. Cars passing on the street at night is another, and the same goes for the sound of people shuffling through an airport, or the dishes being done in the kitchen while another sits in the living room. 

Some sounds, some feelings, will always stay the same no matter where you are, or who you’ve become, or what season of life you’re in. They are good old friends (but too often, they are forgotten as we grow up because their sound is not deemed important enough to notice). But I am trying to remember, and because a clock always sounds the same, it reminds me of 15 years ago when I was a child at a sleepover, noticing that I and the clock seemed to be the only ones still awake. And though it kept me up, I always felt peace because I knew that the clock’s consistency would not change based on mine.

As we age, life pushes us to shed layers and put on others. But sometimes, we find that we have shed some layers that we didn’t actually mean to lose. We made a radical decision to rip layers off because they didn’t fit with our new understanding of the world—as a matter of fact, life wasn’t as kind and beautiful as we imagined. And so we threw those layers aside, because they had felt like lies amidst our new felt pain. And besides, we seemed to be judged by our peers for those whimsical layers anyway, so it was good to throw them off.

But I have become quite hard and sharp on the edges now. So I’m trying to remember again. I’m scavenging the floor to find some of those old layers, some of those old jackets. They may be worn and frayed, but they raised me through much of my childhood. And though, at times, the glasses were a little too rose-colored, that was sometimes a good thing because it further brought out the colors that were already there in the world (and without them, I would have been too oblivious to notice).  

So now, I’m listening to old songs I used to love in 2015 and 2016. I am taking the time to feel them all over again; I remember why I loved them. I’m re-hiking old mountains and taking the time to sit silent where I used to sit for hours, only hearing the cars bustle below. I’m thinking about memories of my younger sister when she was just 16, belting her favorite songs with her eyes closed and her mouth turned up in a smile. I’m once again driving, looking out at the trees, the clouds, the sun, the road in front of me, seeing them for what they are and what they were, symbols of hope and endless possibility. I am beginning to dream again.

I found some of my old layers (and I’m still looking for others). I missed them, I have changed, but they haven’t. They still feel like home. And now they seem to fit even better than before because now I know how to wear them. And so I write this as I lay on my couch in my living room, staring up at my ceiling, noticing once again that it’s just me and the clock who are still awake tonight.

And so it’s true, life isn’t as beautiful and kind as we imagined, and yet it is. We just have to choose to see what those rose-colored layers were trying to show us all along.