To See What I Could See

I was driving to the dance studio and took a different route. For fun, and to see what I could see.

Looking down SE Second Avenue, I saw the bridges in succession, one after another, and beneath them, a whole other level of the city. Old buildings brilliantly covered in graffiti. Loading docks. Wide streets. All that life going on underneath the traffic passing overhead.

I found it compelling enough to stop, get out of the car, and take pictures.

There was something about seeing the bridges together, and the buildings beneath them, that made me want to enter the scene. Each bridge carried people somewhere else. Underneath, here was a place.

On foot, I was a part of the life I was photographing.

Life goes on, at a completely different level, once you’re not above it, speeding past.

I’ve been thinking about that.

I can spend a remarkable amount of time somewhere without being entirely there. My body attends. The rest of me is reviewing something I said yesterday, considering what someone else should have said, or preparing for an event that may never take place.

Busy girl, doing nothing.

Well, not nothing. There’s a tremendous amount of work involved in managing the past and future. Neither cooperates.

Meanwhile, here I am, allegedly living the Bonus Rounds. I would like to experience some of them while they’re happening.

I remember riding in the passenger seat of a car, driving with my eyes. As if the vehicle would crash unless I controlled it through sheer will.

Made for some tense rides.

There was probably scenery.

I was looking straight ahead, concentrating ferociously, contributing absolutely nothing to the operation of the vehicle. The driver had the steering wheel. I had my conviction that my vigilance was essential.

Hard to enjoy a ride under those working conditions.

I wonder how often I do that elsewhere. Sit beside someone I love while supervising what might happen next. Arrive somewhere and immediately begin considering how I’m doing, how I look, what everyone thinks.

There can be quite a crowd in my head before anyone else gets a chance to enter the conversation.

At a family gathering, I found myself playing with Chris and two four-year-olds. For a little while, I was able to enjoy them without obsessively thinking about myself and what everyone thought of me.

It was the highlight of the day.

The children had my attention. I had enough room to enjoy their company. Nothing needed to be improved or resolved before I could be there with them.

For a little while.

I appreciate that qualification. It leaves me somewhere to go after I inevitably resume thinking about myself.

Mindfulness is a rather imposing word for these small experiences. I hear it and suspect there is something I should be doing properly. But I know what it feels like to become interested in something outside my own running commentary. I know the pleasure of being drawn into a moment so completely that I forget to evaluate it.

I would like more of that.

On Second Avenue, curiosity got there before the commentary did.

I hadn’t set out to practice anything. I was on my way to dance class. I took a different street because I wanted to see what was there, and what was there made me want to stop.

The graffiti, the old buildings, the loading docks, the bridges passing above them. I liked the place. I wanted pictures of it.

The view from the car had caught my eye. Standing in the street, I could give it my time.

There’s pleasure in that, too. Allowing something unexpected to occupy a few minutes that were on their way to somewhere else.

I don’t know that I need to make it more complicated, although you can see I’m perfectly capable.

I took a different route to see what I could see.

Then I got out of the car.