Every weekday morning, I leave my apartment at around half past seven, and every weekday afternoon, I leave the Y between four and five. I walk westward in the morning, and eastward in the evening; the sun is always at my back, and my shadow always precedes me.
When I leave on sunny mornings, the sun warms my back on the walk down to work. The light is soft and low-angled when I start and gets brighter as I approach the Y. Some days I’m walking into the wind, some days, it’s at my back pushing me toward my destination. The air and light fill my heart with joy, every morning; I pray to do well and do good, and I thank God for the opportunity to serve.
In the evening, I walk eastward into the edge of the darkening sky, at least I do at this time of year. Some days, like today, the sky is so clear that I can see the demarcation between the advent of the night sky and the retreat of daylight. As I advance eastward toward home, the night sky draws over me like a quilt, and by the time I reach my building, I might see a star, or moonrise, or Jupiter, or Venus glistening in the prussian blue.
It’s too beautiful for words, but words are all I have to tell you just how beautiful it all is.
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