Under a Stained Glass Lamp

Recently, I've been trying to pay attention to my spirit -- something from which I've been disconnected for months, maybe years.

There are times where my spirit seems to expand outside of my body. Being in proximity to honest expression through music, through writing, through film, is something that causes my spirit to inflate and fortify.

My spirit doesn't exclusively react in grand expressions like this; sometimes it simply twitches or stirs. Paying attention to these moments starts to illuminate the more mundane aspects of life that still nourish.

It's spring in the Midwest. Gone are the days of bone-chilling air blowing down from the Arctic; in their place are days that feel like a reward for having survived another winter. The sun shines brightly, the humidity wraps itself around you adding a sense of texture to the warm air. In the summer, this can be an oppressive force but in the spring it's an animating one.

I better understand plants on days like this. In the same way that they photosynthesize nourishment from the sun so, too, do I on days like this. The music in my earphones is more colorful and steps feel just a bit easier to take. Where winter causes me to retreat, spring causes me to advance.

I found myself carried to this pizza joint about ten minutes away from where I live. And once I'd placed my order and sat down in my booth, I felt it. It's as if I was a lantern, quietly radiating light before somebody, somewhere turned a knob that let me shine just a bit brighter. Nothing too dramatic; just something to slightly grow my flame.

I was one of six people sitting in a space that could probably fit fifty, surrounded by some eclectic decor and enveloped by the smell of fresh pizzas in the oven. A woman sits in the booth working on her computer. Two friends who seem to have just finished a shift were commiserating over a Chicago handshake -- a shot of Malort and an Old Style. A projector hung from the ceiling, beaming old-dubbed episodes of One Piece onto one of the walls.

And I recognized in myself a sense of comfort and peace in this little pizza joint in Chicago.

Why? It feels important to know why. Recognition is beneficial, sure, but what is it that I'm actually experiencing?

I haven't been a Midwesterner my entire life. In fact, I grew up in the Lone Star State. Life was alright down there. It was the late '90s, I was eight or nine years old and in the middle of a summer break. My younger sister, who was five or six, had been entered into gymnastics classes by our parents. I don't think they ever really intended for her to be a gymnast; I think they just wanted her to have an opportunity to socialize with other kids and learn how to learn a new skill.

There was a Pizza Hut right next door to the gymnasium and, man, let me tell you that Pizza Hut in the '90s was the coolest. You'd sit in these dimly lit booths, which stood in stark contrast to the bright, Texan sun beaming just outside of your window. The booths were lit by these hanging, stained glass lamps that were all emblazoned with the Pizza Hut logo. And the smell. It must be the smell of pizza; I can't imagine what else it would be. And yet, it's more than that. It's not the smell that you'd experience if I were to make you a pizza in my kitchen. It was a Pizza Hut smell.

My mom, my sister, and I walked into Pizza Hut after my sister's gymnastics practice for some lunch. It was a pretty ordinary day; we weren't there for any particular reason or celebration. On that day, it was just a fine place to get lunch. I remember sitting in that dimly lit booth, beneath that hanging, stained glass lamp, surrounded by that smell.

This Pizza Hut also had a TV. I assume that they all did, although I don't really know. On this particular day, this TV was showing old episodes of Captain Planet.

In retrospect, I love this memory but let me tell you that, at the time, this experience registered as exactly fine. I was excited for pizza, sure, because pizza is good and I loved watching TV, sure, because TV is good. But, Captain Planet?

Captain Planet was boring. Captain Planet was a cartoon made for my parents. It was old, it was slow, it was kind of uninteresting. I was watching a cartoon of some green dude helping teens save rainforests from evil deforesters or something.

In retrospect, it sounds sick as hell but, at the time, I was way more interested in watching some Powerpuff Girls or some Dexter's Laboratory. You know, cartoons that weren't boring. But, TV is better than no TV and so I tuned in while I ate my slice.

Over a quarter of a century later, I found myself back in that spot while sitting at my local pizza joint, which definitely doesn't get enough natural light, while eating my slice and watching old episodes of One Piece. And my spirit stirred.