Y'all Come Sit a Spell

There have been several. A few happened in Alaska. A couple came somewhere in Mexico or Central America. But one that always rises to the surface happened when I was seventeen, at the World’s Fair in New Orleans.
There was a gondola over the Mississippi River. I am terrified of heights, so getting me onto that gondola was a hard sell. I was scared, and I was mad that nobody would stay with me while the others rode. I didn’t want to wait by myself, so I got on the stupid thing. And of course, if you rode one way, you had to ride it back.
The river did not smell romantic or fertile or evergreen. Near the banks, it smelled like fuel and dank, murky, muddy water. But once we got past them, we could look back toward the fair and the theater where Willie Nelson was playing.
On the ride back, he began singing “Always on My Mind.” We were a group of teenagers, all wrapped up in teenage angst and emotion, and we started singing with him. Eighties anyone? Bueller?
When we got off, we hugged. We said we would hold on to that memory. And we have – we revisit it whenever we gather, reunions, receptions – when we run into each other. 
I remember being afraid. I remember being angry. I remember the smell of the river and the view of the fair behind us. I remember Willie’s voice carrying over the water and all of us singing along. The moment wasn’t perfect or even comfortable. It was just so full of feeling that we knew, right then, it would stay with us.
I think that’s part of what makes a moment feel truly alive. Big emotions give the brain somewhere to anchor. Wonder, awe, and fear wake us up to what’s happening around us. The sound of a voice. The smell of the water.
I think of a whale surfacing beside a boat while I was in Alaska once. You feel the swell move you, then catch the smell of the whale’s exhale. It is astonishing. Your whole body seems to understand that something remarkable is happening before you can put it into words.
Maybe adrenaline junkies are chasing that same feeling: the rush that pulls you completely into the present. For me, the moments that stay are often tied to wonder, awe, or fear. They don’t have to be comfortable. They don’t even have to be happy. They have to be big enough to bring me all the way into them.
Maybe feeling truly alive is that: being so present in a moment that your senses gather it up, your emotions give it weight, and some part of you knows you’ll carry it with you.