Circles

amoureaux au bouquet
Marc Chagall

It has been my habit since childhood to stop and slowly turn a circle when I perceive those moments in life that are small but grand at the same time. It was winter and I was eight. It must have been a Friday or Saturday because I was up late when the snow began to fall. Everyone else in the house had already gone to sleep. I was a night owl as a child, and I'd often stay up reading with a flashlight under the covers. I remember a full moon and how quickly the street outside my window turned from glittery black to soft luminescent white. I watched tiny bits of snow hit the glass pane turned to drawing slate by my warm breath. I put on my shoes, threw a coat over my nightgown and headed out into the living room with my gloves and stocking cap in my hands. I silently opened the door and walked out into the front yard that had transformed itself into every place I ever wanted to be. It was so quiet and clean. Every movement I made was like a whisper. All I knew to do was to stand there, eyes closed and face up to the sky, slowly turning, telling myself I would remember this. I will always remember this.

Years later, I visited the Floral District in Los Angeles for the first time. It was a city made of flowers. I stopped in the center of one of the giant floors, closed my eyes, and began my circle. It was sweetness, nectar, and voices--garbled Tagalog, Vietnamese and Spanish, the squeaking of carts and baby strollers, the gentle spray from the misters. My boyfriend at the time stood there nervously, looking around afterward to see if anyone had noticed the crazy girl in her orbit amidst the blossoms. I tried to explain it to him. He didn't get it. How can you remember anything with your eyes closed? It's how I make myself know that magic is real. It's how I spin on my axis and create a charm for this bracelet that is my life. I remember things best with my eyes closed, circumnavigating the happiest moments of my existence from the inside.