It took me a few minutes, but I realized that I, too, have my “sign.”

I like “aha” moments. They are my spiritual sign, my indicator that something good is happening, will happen, or has happened.

You know, those moments where you reel a little, the air kinda-sorta contracts around you, and you suddenly! Know something. And you get that small thrill of wonder, of feeling things click in place. Almost like the feeling you get when you snap two difficult puzzle pieces together–you know, those puzzles with wide expanses of blue and white sky, where all the puzzle pieces are the same.

“Aha” moments come along of their own accord. They are strange creatures, with unusual habits. Or they are the most ordinary things, with pedestrian glamor. When you meet one, you almost want to pet it, to cuddle up with it all by yourself, your very own pet. But you also want to leave it behind and run down the street and find the nearest person and tell them about your strange craze.

What wondrous food these must consume, to cause moments that inject that gleam in your eye, that quirk in your smile, or that extra quick breath. Where do they come from, and how do they touch us so?

I believe they are a magical melding of our minds with the whispered massage of our environments, along with the catalyst of information, be it from ourselves or other people.

Sitting at a fire, looking at the flames flicker, the orange circle of light fighting back and forth with the press of the night, one can easily conceive of a titanic battle of wills between the light and the dark. One knows that the combustion of matter, the consumption of wood, throws off energy in the form of heat and light, and that the light travels at c, and heat dissipates according to the laws of thermodynamics. One hears that the smoke from the fire is getting in their eyes, and oh, it stings! And this is just one tiny moment among the countless moments that we experience in our lives.

One moment follows another, vast sums and annotations of information, chapters and verses of mythology, skeins of sensation and sound. The “aha” moment is at the intersection of these, at the crossroads of everything, where a new synapse is formed between neurons, or perhaps not just a singular snyapse, but a new synapse superhighway, a veritable Eisenhower interstate system linking life and knowledge together.

I also like seeing these moments in other people; I get a whiff of secondhand “aha.” A voyeuristic high, with secret smiles and fond bittersweet memories. I especially enjoy it when I’ve helped the moment along with paltry words or signs, expressed in the poor channel that is human language when compared to pure thought.

I imagine myself standing in that synapse crossroads with them, looking up in the far mountains that rise up from a quiet plain. I usually feel good about myself, almost full to bursting with secret pride, that I helped drive the car there, when I really just had held the wheel for a moment or two–if that.

I saw a girl understand racism for the first time in her life. I felt a man see that his language could be interpreted differently. I felt the unyielding and beautiful truth of a thirteen mile run. I heard a child say with all their heart that they missed their mother, even though she had only left for the night a few hours before.

When I saw or felt these things, I knew I would be okay, that everything was just as it should be. That nothing more is needed than to be fully present in the single life that we are given.

The man behind the window wrote as I spoke, on a small sheet of yellow legal paper.  Then he drew a few lines, boxing my order in neatly.

“Your number is 36,” he said.  His young face was rough but kind.  Solicitous, even.

I sat down at the bench across from the window, to better be alerted when my order was ready.  The restaurant–if it could be called that–was mostly outdoors.  Only the cooking and ordering area was fully enclosed.  There was a partially enclosed area with rows of tables, and permanent tables outside.

A huge sign read “SMOKEHOUSE” and under it, in bright white on red, was the menu.  FRIES were 2.95 and CHEESEBURGERs were 4.95.  Stomach rumbling from the delicious smell, I waited.

Occasionally a flare-up from the grill revealed itself in a bright flash of light.  You could usually see the back of the cook, whoever was cooking at that moment, becoming briefly visible through the opening of the window.  A tiny trickle of smoke worked its way out of the window.

Lost in thought, or on my iPhone, I didn’t see the cashier gesture at me the first time–but I saw him the second time.  Stepping up, I received my order neatly packed in a beheaded box.  Fries, check.  Chili, check.  Drink, check.

“Do you want crackers,” the man said, with one hand under the counter, as if he was slowly fingering a cache of illicit merchandise.

“No thanks,” I said with a faint smile.

I threw a $10 on the counter and said to keep the change.  Picking up the box, I walked out of Smokehouse and down the street.

I’d like to share an interesting experience–call it a dream–with you.

The sun was shining, and a gentle light suffused the place, filled it with a glow.  My body almost became transparent, the light was passing through me but yet it was coming from me.  I worked with the light, slowly, almost (but not) controlling the light but yet simply letting it pass through.  It was an intimate thing, the most intimate thing that you can experience; for it is you, the self, the spirit.

It was in that dream, in that moment, that it came to me.  I saw that my presence that day, that time, brought awareness and light to others.  That it wasn’t wrong to be a quiet and still amongst chaos.  That a calm smile is not an antidote to the fevers of life, but is meaningful in its own right. Some call this state being a ‘light worker’.

These feelings, these thoughts are just the beginning for me.  I continue to massage the tension between the ego and staying present in the moment.  The illusions of the ego are seductive, and take a lifetime to master.  They are so seductive that they seem perfectly normal, to the point where they seem necessary and a natural part of life.

The solution is not rejection of the ego or ego-centric thoughts or feelings, though, for that is far too forceful.  It is paradoxically ego-centric to contemplate rejection.  It is only through embracing those things, of loving, that one can surpass the limits placed upon one.  To use an overused phrase, love will set you free.

I know these thoughts are somewhat scattered, but they ring true for me nonetheless.  And I’m actually feeling sad right now.  But while love tends to be associated with happiness, love is quite often sad and melancholy.  And that’s perfectly okay.

Thankfully those nights are rare, the porch light being on, because…just because.  They just are.  Often I turn it off so I don’t see the face when I go to the bathroom (which is adjacent to the front door).

In bed,with the porch light on, just knowing it is there gives me a small chill.  That forever face with its V-shaped mouth and hard eyes written in 100-watt soft white light.  No stranger to night terrors I am, childhood full of frozen moments where time leaked away slowly, body stiff, knowing the very air pressed itself against you with baleful intent.

They are old friends of mine, the quivering shadow against the window, the invisible presence by the bed, moving will-o-wisps out of the corner of your eye, cold LED lights blinking like eyes, goosebumps appearing like magic, rushing across the body as if propelled by wind.

Later, as I got older, these old friends slowed down and lost their power, only to be supplanted by the very real fears of not making a living, losing people, and not ever finding ones way through the world.

It takes a leering face in the darkness of the night to resurrect and transport these old, old fears, here to stop and say hello, why yes, we are still around.  We just wanted to remind you of childhood and through that, remark on your adulthood, how the simple honesty of being afraid of the dark is sometimes the only sane thing to feel.

Then she was over the top, and the vista of San Francisco and the bridge opened in front of her.  A sense of vertigo touched her briefly as the yawning expanse of the Bay area pressed on her.  The dizziness passed quickly, to be replaced by the familiar feeling of loss.

She continued down the path, which ended at a iron fence at the edge of the bluff.  Her dark clothes flapping around her, she rested two small hands on the warm metal of the fence.  She put her foot on the bottom railing.  Her right arm dangled at her side, now, and her brown hair shone in the orange sunlight.

Below her, the wind coaxed white foam out of the sea water, breaking, only to be pushed anew.

I had Chipotle for lunch with Lizzie, a friend from out of town. Then I said hello to Shilpa as she was passing through, and needed a spot of help with her trusty Powerbook. That evening my throat was sore and acidic, a unholy mixture of Influenza and Chipotle. But I wouldn’t know how unholy until the next day.

The next day came, I felt worse.  Paged Leah and we arranged that I’d pick her up (since I had the car).  So I did.  Armed with Subway sandwiches and movies we returned.  Not long after that, I began my descent into RNA hell.

A couple hours later I had a fever of almost 104 degrees.  I didn’t emerge from that thicket until four days later and two vacation days poorer.  Not once in those days did my body temp ever go below 100 degrees (maybe 99.9).

The influenza virus is not to be trifled with, mere humans.  Run and vaccinate yourselves!  While you can!

Submitted by Paul Crutcher

In the modern world, most of our meat is so far removed from the animal that we only rarely contemplate the connection. This comfortable detachment is impossible with face. And in China, where I am, people eat it. Rabbit face looks strikingly similar to those pictures of people in front of a powerful fan, cheeks flapping, eyes askew. It’s almost indistinguishable from duck or chicken face in that, once you’re past the “I am eating a face” part, the experience is much like the familiar inane fight with the gristly bits of meat on a leg bone. Fish face differs because it’s often served attached to the fish. You contemplate the face after a good-natured Chinese friend has deftly decapitated it and dropped it into your bowl. You’re told that it’s a delicacy, and famous in this or that region. Then you’re left fidgeting with your chopsticks for tiny speckles of fish meat, trying to talk your way out of consuming the eyes.

From McSweenys.net