Hello to stepping outside because I had to get out.
Hello to 7:32 pm.
Hello to 71 degrees in spring.
Hello to Park Rd.
Hello to the sky.
Hello to the stretches I rush through.
Hello to the gaggle of birds in a bush that trill, “He’s off!”
Hello to a long uphill.
Hello to the side streets whose names I repeat in my head as if I’ll be tested.
Hello to my legs, pumping with blood.
Hello to the sunset, purpling the sky.
Hello to the roses.
Hello to the petals sprinkling a lawn.
Hello to the trellising flowers whose names I wish I knew.
Hello to crosswalks over streets that keep colliding and no one seems to notice.
Hello to my breath, ragged.
Hello to my breath, recovered.
Hello to the pain in my feet.
Hello to my wounds.
Hello to my survival.
Hello to each step, which arithmetic and my ancestors tell me can add up to a million.
Hello to my lungs, trapped inside my body but wishing to be out.
Hello to the holy container of my body, and its movements.
Hello to my freedom.
Hello to the old, drooping, tall trees. And the young, erect, (still) tall ones.
Hello to the trash I jump over.
Hello to police lights and police sirens and all the wounds we inflict upon each other.
Hello to the pain I send into the earth in each step.
Hello to the pain in each step the earth sends back into me.
Hello to the gentle eyes I meet on the path.
Hello to the many faces of the canine world.
Hello again to the sunset, peeking between homes like they’re conspiring to tell a joke but can’t help but laugh before they get it out.
Hello to the sidewalk and all the scars we trace it with.
Hello to the felled giant whose core is so old the earth forgot it was ever absent and won’t let go.
Hello to the way the giant holds back, even though we think it dead.
Hello to the park whose sculptures I don’t understand.
Hello to the pain in my knees.
Hello to the tree whose shade I seek even though the sun is set.
Hello to the half hour I just sit.
Hello to the soft moss that I sit on; it gives way.
Hello to the trunk that props me up when I’d rather fall.
Hello to the pine cone half ripped open.
Hello to the streetlamp that turns on at dusk, not dark.
Hello again to the birds—they won’t quiet.
Hello to the cars—also not quiet.
Hello to all the strangers who have faces I will never see.
Hello to the air, which expands me.
Hello to the sky, which makes space for me.
Hello to the earth, which carries me.
Hello to the dirt, which makes me.
Hello to standing.
Hello to the detour I wasn’t expecting.
Hello to the slow walk home.
Hello to the street whose trees cover its sky like a hug.
Hello, even, to road work.
Hello to the bloom which we call late, as if beauty has boundaries.
Hello to pollen and the smell of honeysuckle, the smell of a younger, unencumbered me.
Hello to the tears which came unexpectedly.
Hello to their ceasing, just as unexpected.
Hello to Spirit, who cries with me.
Hello to Healer, who binds me.
Hello to Mother, who nurses me.
Hello to Father, who holds me.
Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.
Hello to moon, my lonely companion: there are things I can only see in your gentle light.
Hello to night, the friend I no longer fear: there are things I can only name in your slowness.
Hello to dark, which Presence calls mine: there are places I can only go holding your hand.
I welcome all of you, just as I welcome all me,
too.
Hello to Home.
Goodbye to running.
Hello.
- 🌓