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The first thing is the breeze.  It blows in like summer, and before you know what’s happened it’s a part of you.  It carries sounds, and smells, and looking over I see her blond hair blowing around, streaming away from the open car window.  I can’t look at her for very long.  It’s bright these days, the sun seems to be growing.  It knows that this is its time.  So it shines.  It shines through the sunroof, shines through her hair, shines on the dashboard, warming up the music as it comes out.  Inaudible melodies half masked by the sounds of the street. 

On the sidewalk a thousand people are doing a thousand things for a thousand different reasons, their legs in shorts and skirts, feet pointing every-which-way.  The breeze changes directions and the sound of the world fades away, the smell of asphalt disappears, and I can smell her hair, hear her humming along to the radio.  These endless spring afternoons are perfect. 

They are miraculous.  I’m convinced that they belong to Orange County.  New York never sleeps, what happens in Vegas can stay there.  And what’s the spirit of Southern California?  It’s so new, so young, and seemingly soulless compared to places with actual history…The spirit is the hope that the days of our youth might never end.  Flip flops and short-shorts and double-dutch.  Down on the sand, the smell of barbecue.  On days like this, we have no responsibilities.  We exult in our freedom.  We celebrate our immortality with tan legs and pedicures and oversized towels.  Our chapel for this worship is the beach, with cool breezes, surf songs melting into the sound of the waves, of Frisbees, of volleyball games. 

Take possession of moments like this.  It is your job to claim them, to internalize them, and to make them a part of your soul.  And next month, and next year, and three decades from now, that song should remind you of the quality of the light on that day, how her hair floated weightless, how you had nowhere to be and everywhere to go.