fireworks

seeing beauty in the details

One Saturday I had, for many reasons, a very bad couple of hours. I had intended to stay in town, maybe get myself some dinner, but I was instead walking home to make sure I got there in time for my takeaway to arrive, because at that point, I wanted to walk in the door and have dinner on the table. (When you live alone, you have to be your own wife. It’s exhuasting. Where’s that feminist essay written by that woman who wants a wife? Yeah. I want a wife.)

That Saturday in particular, if you live in the UK, was also the first weekend after Bonfire Night. Some places had already set off their fireworks, but others had waited until the weekend to ensure maximum viewership. One fireworks show, which was happening in a park near my old flat, was even visible from the centre of town. Another fireworks show was set off in an Oxford college, as if competing with the park. As I walked, I was surrounded by booms on all sides.

I kept my head down initially; after all, I didn’t need to see fireworks, as I’d already seen a quite good show at my friend’s college on Bonfire Night. I was grumpy, my legs were tired, I felt like shit, and it was cold. I was ready to grumble the whole walk home, and tell passers-by “bah, humbug” to boot.

As I walked, I came across a few people who’d stopped and were all looking to the left. Curious, I followed their gazes and caught a perfect image of the fireworks happening in the park. The view was spectacularly clear: the trees framed the fireworks, and every firework that went off seemed to be dancing around the moon.

I had a few minutes, so I stayed and watched. I was surrounded by strangers, stragglers on their way home. All of us had stopped, just for a few minutes, to watch some fireworks.

One of my favourite poems is by Robert Frost, called “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening.” It’s one of the only poems I have memorised.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though.

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

The people who put together the fireworks show wouldn’t see any of us stopping to watch the show. They would not see our faces illuminated by the crackle of the light. They will likely never know how many people stopped to see something beautiful, even if just for a few minutes. All they know is that they put on a show thatpeople enjoyed.

It was strange, our motley crew of observers. On my right was a man who looked to be in his forties, in running clothes. On my left was a girl in sweats, her hair wet and plastered to her forehead. Across the street was a cyclist, his lights flashing, his bike leaning on his side as he looked to the sky. A harried man on the phone saw all of us watching; he put his phone down and watched, hands wrapped around himself. Two older ladies leaned on each other, their heads touching, as they pointed out their favourite fireworks.

None of us knew each other, but for a moment, we were united by the simple desire to see something pretty. We did not ooh and ahh as we might have done in a crowd. The street was silent, illuminated by headlights, bike lights, the occasional fairy lights in a window, and of course, the fireworks. From this distance, they seemed gentle. The sound was not a boom, but a pop.

Yes, I know fireworks are terrible for the environment, terrible for veterans with PTSD, terrible for autistic people, terrible for animals, yes, yes, I know. Just… let me have this one.

One of the many reasons I love that Robert Frost poem is because of how it asks us to take in the scenery. We all have miles to go before we sleep, but stop anyway. Stop to see the woods fill up with snow. Stop for a moment to watch some sparkles in the sky with a few bedraggled strangers. Stop to notice that our world is beautiful, if only we look every once in a while.

I still beat my takeaway home, but I was no longer grumpy, or tired, or annoyed by the time I walked in the door. I was cold, but in a way that satisfied me, like coming inside for a hot chocolate after a day of sledding in subzero temperatures. My cheeks were ruddy not just from cold but delight. There is wonder in this world after all.

What really stays with me, though, was how many other people also paused their walks to see the fireworks. We hear so much about the bad things, but here is my good thing: people are wonderful. People stop to see something cool, and by stopping, they make others stop, too. About a minute after I stopped, a boy who was maybe late teens or early twenties looked at all of us curiously, then took off his headphones and joined us to stare at the sky. Perhaps he would have seen them without the small group of us. Perhaps not.

A friend recently told me that you always regret not going to things, but you rarely regret going. I do not regret staying outside for a few more minutes in the cold to watch the sky light up. The annoyances of the day were placed in the past with every fizzle of light. For a few minutes, it was just me, the small community of strangers I would never see again, and our unification as we all marvelled at the light on a dark November evening.

[Caption: A cyclist who has pulled over to watch the fireworks takes a photograph as fireworks light up the sky above a neighbourhood.]