6 a.m. Friday morning.
I’m running. Down the hill, around the corner, and down the sidewalk on Post Road.
I adjust my stride to miss the cracks between the concrete slabs. Grass sprouts up from the cracks, asparagus colored green, bushy clumps – it was a Simone Weil moment: “Only the light that falls continually from the sky gives a tree the energy to push powerful roots into the earth. The tree is actually rooted in the sky.” How? How does this grass push its way through the concrete? The light, roots the grass to the earth, pulls it upward to the sky.
The street is empty but for a big city bus a few hundred feet up the road. Its body is dark, a hulking silhouette, its interior beams, illuminated. It’s odd to see a large bus in our small town, so early, so far from Manhattan. The bus is full, passengers lean their heads against windows, their mornings started in darkness some time earlier followed by…
A long walk to the bus stop.
A long wait for the bus, delayed.
A slow tip of the hand to release coins into the dispenser for the fare.
A long ride on the bus to work, seats worn, cushions flat, flush to metal.
A long walk from the bus stop to work.
And do it all over on the return at the end of the day.
It’s a few feet from our back door to the garage to my car. The gas tank is full. I push the button for ignition, the cool air conditioning envelopes me in the cabin. I adjust my position in the soft leather seat. Always have a seat. Never a long walk. Never a need for coins.
I pass a bus on the street on my drive to work. Passengers look down, with blank-eyed stares.
Yes, Simone. Yes. The light. The sky. The trees. The roots. The earth.
And…The Lottery.
Notes:
- Post inspiration: “I honestly believe that…things can change in an instant, and made it key to my philosophy of life: neither money nor my work define me. I like them, they allow me to do many things I enjoy, but if I did not have them, I know I would be able to find something else to do, I would be able to survive, I could be happy…I never take anything for granted, and I never forget how lucky I have been, and am.” ~ Alan Cumming, Not My Father’s Son: A Memoir
- Photograph: Skogrun
- Related Posts: Commuting Series
