Markers of Progress in the Evening

Apologies for the lack of posts today. My wife's work schedule was quirky, leaving me with extra time as domestic dad because it doesn't make sense to bring the kid to "Mema's house" for less than an hour. Then, there were in-law taxes to do and personal bills, for which I'd had to wait for a paycheck's arrival, to pay. And I had my usual dayjob work to do, of course. Luckily, there wasn't much out there requiring my immediate blogging attention.

So, evening has closed the day, at last. The rain dissipated into a fog that has captured the fleeting warmth within its folds. Streetlights transform each corner into a stage. Smells drift low along the pavement — detergents bringing forth memories of the homes of childhood friends, trees redolent of teenage meanders. Scenes from across the years sift between the shadows.

Over the past few years, I've noticed a newcomer to my emotional repertoire: inexplicable optimism. Ultimately, it derives from faith, I know, but the absence of more-explicit justifications makes it an irrational kind of hope. (I'm convinced that the unseen foundation of faith is what allows many atheists and apathetic quasibelievers to step away, and that the reliance on irrationality leaves them unable to spot the gaping hole they leave in their children's formation by wrongly assuming hope to be an independent, inherent quality.)

I've no reason to expect any opportunity to advance in the near future, visible when the fog lifts. Quite the opposite. But there are other types of expectation, and besides, there's plenty to experience just lingering at this particular corner.