MEANS AND GUIDANCE

I had a single moment of silence in 2015.

Of course I don’t mean literally. I live in Lincoln, Nebraska, where silence is everywhere. Drive a half hour in almost any direction and you’ll find it.

I mean stillness.

I’m always thinking. Even in moments of intense concentration, there’s a stream of thoughts on loop in the background. It’s like static: constant and nagging. I’ve only ever succeeded in turning down the volume. I haven’t managed to find the off switch.

Except in small and rare blips in time when the clock seems to stop. It’s completely involuntary. But looking back I’ve noticed a pattern. It’s never happened to me while sitting on the hood of my car in The Middle of Nowhere, Nebraska, or while leaning against the steps of my porch with a cup of coffee as rain patters on the overhang. I find these moments buried in deafening noise and utter chaos.

It happened to me in the basement of Sokol Underground in the heat of summer as Andrew McMahon wailed into a mic and pounded on the keys of a piano.

It happened in a packed pub in the south of Dublin as the first strums of “Wonderwall” blared over speakers and suddenly everyone was singing along, bottles of cider and pints of Guinness raised high in the air.

Something in me shuts down and I am in a state of total wonder. I am thinking nothing. Nothing at all. Just observing with strange detachment what’s unfolding around me. I am fully present in that moment. When I sink back into the white noise in my head the first thought that comes into focus is warm with gratitude and disbelief: “How did I get here?”

It shouldn’t be shocking, then, that my most recent experience happened while I was in New York, a city known for its noise and its chaos. But this one was different.

We grabbed brunch in Soho, then took the train to Brooklyn and popped into a few of its quirky niche shops. As the sun began to set we wandered toward the river and found a spot among the rocks, just on the water’s edge. We watched as hues of pink and orange kissed the rigid edges of a skyline that stands as the ultimate demonstration of man’s desire to create.

First you have to understand that taking this trip was the ballsiest thing I’ve ever done. I was raised to think things through. You want to go somewhere? You choose the date (months in advance), you set an agenda, and THEN you buy the ticket. And you bet your ass you buy travel insurance. I wasn’t introduced to the rush of impulsivity until late college. It’s something I’m trying to embrace as I grow older. I’d like to think this was a step in the right direction.

The idea of New York was tossed around over drinks with a friend late one Friday night. Saturday afternoon I bought the ticket. Wednesday morning I got on the plane.

And the following Saturday I was here, on Brooklyn’s edge surveying Manhattan from a gorgeous angle.

A collective emotion hung over that scene. I felt that familiar sense of stillness sweep over me and my mind fell silent. I was flanked by one of my best friends and a group of strangers that had also noticed the sun setting and gathered to admire it. No one spoke. Aside from the occasional click of a camera and the buzz of the city, it was quiet.

And then I did something I’ve been doing more frequently as of late. I prayed.

I didn’t ask for the dream job (which is usually my choice topic of discussion with whoever’s up there). I didn’t even ask for a permanent address in New York City. I asked for means and guidance: the guidance to get to where I’m truly supposed to be, and the means to live while I’m on the journey.

It was surreal and peaceful. Most of all, it was enough. I wanted for nothing in that moment except those two things.

I’ve prayed that same prayer over and over since my return to Lincoln. Because on some level, it feels wrong to ask for anything more.