beginnings

do you know that one tight-rope suspended breath, just before something begins? (or has it begun already?) Alice Munro talks about 'the way the skin of the moment can break open'. (i wish i had written that. but since i didn't, i'm glad she did.) anyway, right before that, right right up before that, that one breath, that's the best moment. but so fleeting, so impossible to hold, and so often only visible in retrospect, that i might have spent half a lifetime, chasing beginning after beginning, just for a glimpse of it. and failed to catch even that.
at the train museum in utrecht, on the right from the entrance hall, there is a wall of old-fashioned suitcases, piled up ceiling-high. and inside some of the suitcases, fairy-like scenes have been recreated, with classical music playing while the hologram cherubs and swans cavort in their miniature gardens of cardboard and moss. you can climb on a wooden ladder, and peek inside. it was the best thing at the museum, isabelle and i agreed. right there, at the very beginning. actually, just before the beginning.