A Gift of the Beat

June 20, 2008
By
David, with a newly shaved head and the Oakley glasses – with the early morning smile brighter than the sunrise-sky outside. It constantly appears as a Cheshire Cat, laughing at who knows what. David’s smile is without cares, without doubts, without reason. And unlike other smiles at school, simply to try and stay happy, David brings his bright morning smile because he is already happy. David is content with being happy, doesn’t try to be happy, doesn’t know why he is happy, but every school day morning with his sunrise-sky smile, he lets me know he is.


David, with his sweat-soaked jersey and his cracked and beaten helmet. David who never hesitates, never quits, never stops. David, who, beaten and broken as he always is, continues to break himself with better and better goals. They say David is a fighter, I disagree. David is a winner, because to him, work is never a fight. Riding every day, David always beats someone, though he infrequently has other riders with him. David is like the confused politician, the understudied test-taker, always battling within himself – battling to beat himself. David with the yellow jersey, who prides himself on nothing less than his own best, and never giving in to his sweat-soaked accomplishments.


David, with his untamable mind, rebellious and renegade as a wild bull, charging always at the red cape of his great potential. David, who never shows what he is searching for, who never needs ask who he is; David who is sure of everything and disheartened by nothing. David who knows me better than I, and still never questions why, oh why, am I ever friends with this loser of a guy, but stays right by me every day – just as frequent as I ask why. David with the hearts that break, never his own, and never from hate, but simply from misunderstanding this bull – with a mind so untamable, so rebellious, so strong

David, with his heart not of gold, as gold is too soft and malleable. No, David with his heart of steel, his heart of work, his heart of passion. Rises always to the call. Raises hands always to the question. Runs always in the race. And returns always to his friends. David, whose confusing heart beats rhythms and names, in whose blood flows principle and character, and in whose lungs flow music and words. David whose heart works as hard as his mom’s, but always beat more smoothly. So it is the sunrise-sky, sweat-soaked, untamable David who gives not his heart or his mind, but the beat – the rhythm of his workhorse heart that only starts to show his life.

It is not the heart that lets you know you are alive, but the pulse.





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