Small Rituals

It’s a funny challenge, to write about something routine, since usually we write to document the new, the unusual. the different:

Hangin' 'round downtown by myself

And I've had too much caffeine, and I was thinkin' 'bout myself

And then there she was.

Instead, I take the elevator down, walk across the glossy lobby floor and push my way through the door and out onto the street. I like the lobby because of the subdued, piped-in piano music. The lobby, like the entire building, is Art Deco, and with the music, makes me feel like I’m in a ’40s movie. 

My morning walk begins in a dizzying canyon of glass and concrete.  I check out the flower beds built in alongside the curbs. They did a good job. Downtown needs all the help it can get. They planted trees, too--locust trees with primordial fern-like leaves that aren’t lush, but grow like weeds in the Missouri climate. Better than nothing. A homeless guy begins to veer toward me, and I know what’s coming. With a mixture of guilt and smug satisfaction I head him off with a preemptive nod and a smile and a brief explanation. Sorry. I don’t have anything on me. Bless you, he says, but I know better. At the first intersection I encounter, I have a red light. I look both ways and cross. I always look for cars--the light won’t hit you, as they say. 

Birds are actually chirping. I wonder as always if anyone but me notices their little songs. 

The ordinary is worth cultivating, I figure. There’s so much of it. 

***From Poets and Storytellers United . . .