Author: Dia

This morning I saw:

1. Fifteen pigeons sharing a pink and white frosted cookie.

2. A man wearing a navy blazer, pink tie, and purple Oxford shirt with brown wing-tip shoes and yellow socks.

Something’s wrong with my watch … again … it keeps skipping ahead and I’m disoriented because I feel like I’m moving quickly, despite the evidence presented by the atomically- correct, constantly- updated device on my wrist.

At 15, I recognized the futility of trying to standardize the moments we experience and gave up wearing a watch for 30 years.

They’re useful for catching trains, but beyond that, I’m skeptical.

Because I can, I take a different path today, down a street into what’s called The Design District.

The sidewalks are wide and cobbled with tastefully small pebbles that won’t trip up even the highest heels. The sycamore trees are tall and the broad green canopies shade buildings that look as if they sprung into existence last week.

The illusion of order and peace comes to an abrupt end at the next street where the sidewalk disappears and I have to thread my way carefully through construction and cars in various states of motion.

A series of reflections in some windows appears to be trying to spell something out, but I’m in too much of a hurry to read it.

What did you see?

#mymorningwalk

I step outside and the hovering shadow that has kept me from sleep all night is manifest in the body of a pigeon.

It seems to have come upon her quickly, her last meal burst forth and scattered on the pavement. I wonder if she felt satisfied, full and happy in the last hours of her life.

The Buddhists tell us that the way to a happy life is to make peace with death. For to live, is to die, and knowing that, accepting it, allows us to appreciate this brief and beautiful moment fully.

But we still pretend we will live forever, perhaps because it is so easy to die. And so hard to truly live.

Our hearts break, over and over and over again. We lose. We err. We disappoint, and are disappointed. We fight and then, too often, too easily, we give up.

I feel the street under my feet as I stand at the corner. At this crossroad, and most on my path, it does not really matter which way I go, as long as I keep to the general direction, and keep moving.

The only difference is in the experience, and the interpretation is even more than that.

Today, south; yesterday, east. Tomorrow may never come.

As I walk along the concrete and feel the wind on my face, alive, and as much a part of this world as I can be. Breathing it, feeling it, walking it, loving it in all its terrible glory.

Near the tracks, another reminder: a pile of raw meat and bones discarded on the street, and just beyond a flowering, fragrant tree.

The air fills my body, and I breathe.

#mymorningwalk

What did you see?

 

 

Today

Death confronts me today as I step out the door. A constant companion, I rarely note its shadow anymore.

A bird, a pigeon, full and satisfied, belly burst wide open, and it died.

Road under my feet. Wind on my face. Swish of the skirt on my legs as I move through this space.

This beautiful space and this moment in time. It’s not very long, but it’s here, and it’s mine.

Mine to do with, whatever I choose. Mine to enjoy, shape, explore, win or lose.

I stand at a crossroad, but it hardly matters which way I go.

Today, right. Yesterday, left. Tomorrow, I don’t yet know.

A glance at the time and I see that it is late. The train may leave without me, yet, I still hesitate.

The path matters in the moment, and that is all there is,

This moment, full and satisfied, is where this body lives.

My eyes begin to water, as I begin to run. This is a happy consequence of living in the sun.

Today’s choice leads me to a man with a heavy load in a long truck.

His choice has lead to him getting stuck.

He swings too tight and threatens a light, and blocks the traffic flow.

Horns blare, people curse, a woman grips her Gucci purse as she exits her car to stare.

One man, a walker like me, stands his ground, signals to the trucker and guides him around.

The street is clear, the traffic flows. The trucker tips his hat and the walker goes.

I hurry on toward the train, but Death has beaten me there, again.

A pile of bones and raw meat, tossed carelessly to the side of the street.

Tomorrow, that pile may well be me, but for now, I am content to Be.