My sweet mother, bless her heart, instilled in me a sort of paranoia-- which was surely instilled in her from her own mother. The “lock the doors,” “don’t hike alone,” “be careful when you’re walking downtown at night,” “carry your pepper spray,” “keep a quilt in your car, just in case” sort of paranoia. And as I left for college, I did have my pepper spray and quilt in tow, because I didn’t think to question it.
If I did venture out alone, there was a hint of anxiety just below the surface, keeping my guard up. There still is.
But some nights, there is an inescapable energy that builds within me-- a mix of pain, frustration, and restlessness-- and I have to go. So I throw on a tank top, shove my feet into running shoes, and go.
It was summertime when I truly learned to love my city. The days were almost unbearably warm, but the nights were divine. I began to learn of myself as I meditated to the beat of my feet on the pavement, as I let the cool air rush around my arms and neck, and as I ran around the blocks that carried a much different feel with darkness and street light. Yes, I still carried pepper spray, but I also carried a strength that I had never known before. My city gave that to me. It still does.
I have to admit... I can relate to your mother. But there is so much beauty and peace in venturing out alone and having that space to breath. Where is your town? Provo or San Diego? Great essay!
ReplyDeleteProvo :) It wasn't really clear I suppose.
ReplyDeleteHa! I knew it had to be Provo... So well done! You must have captured it in your words somehow because I recognized a kindred feeling. :) I like the mirrored phrases "There still is" and "It still does." Brings it around nicely.
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