Eyes are closed. Water spills over shoulders. Steam spills over the top of the shower curtain. If there is a God, this is his Temple. One of life’s simplest and most magnificent pleasures.
I turn up the heat, and just stand, arms down, shoulders curled and leaning forward – I breathe. Snippets of Mary Oliver leak in…”But mostly I just stand…in the middle of the world, breathing in and out. Life so far doesn’t have any other name but breath and light, wind and rain.”
Release.
I step out. Towel dry. One eye is on the clock. Can’t miss the 6:16 to get to an 8 am meeting in Midtown.
I pull on knee length socks. It was less than 30 seconds, 30 years ago, but his words still bite. The wound still fresh, the cuts over something so small yet replayed thousands of times since and triggered each morning when I slide on my socks. “Over-the-calf socks are crude,” he said. “One shouldn’t see the hair on your legs. And polish your shoes.” Crude.
I button shirt. Slide on pants. Loop belt. Tie tie.
I grab shoes, set them down and lean over.
I pull on both ends of the laces on the left shoe.
Snap! Damn! Continue reading “Walking Cross-Town. Untied. Unhinged.”