Each Thursday, join me for my once a week practice, Through the Glass Backwards. The title of this series came from my former commute into work, when I took the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually ended up facing backwards, watching as the city slipped by. Now that I work from home, these vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see as the world outside me lives its life, and I am fortunate enough to see, but not necessarily from the light rail window.
This was written after my Wednesday morning run.
I step outside to the chill of mid-morning. As I run familiar sidewalks, I notice that the world around me has not changed. The sky is overcast; they’re calling for a potential nor’easter this afternoon and evening. There are still dead leaves, discarded wrappers. There are still cars traveling too fast on the Jones Falls Expressway running underneath this bridge I’m on. The music on my headphones is a playlist I’ve run to nearly every time I’ve gone out by myself for the past month.
I step outside, move to the rhythm of my breath, taking in my city. Outside, nothing has changed.
Inside, everything has changed. Thoughts of what next? What changes? How will we do the best that we can? all run through my head. Thoughts of how to respond to thoughtful remarks about this country… my country. Thoughts about this city… my city. How do we build bridges when we’ve been blowing up the territory we hope to build on?
I breathe the sharp air in; I am uncomfortable with this uncertainty. But certainty has built walls hard to break through. I follow my breath, the sidewalk, the gray sky.
Outside, nothing has changed. Inside, everything has.