September 3, 2011

• Switchfoot Jogging

  The sweat drips down my forehead. I write better when sticky. Because all good ideas come when I do not have access to a pen. Like when jogging. Seven pm Saturday night was made for jogging, and I was made for seven pm Saturday night.

  My short hair brings stares, as do my basketball shorts. I jog past, pretending not to notice. Pretending I am just a little more confident than I am. Brazilian woman have long hair, like the pictures of Eve in the garden of Eden. And they wear spandex, not basketball shorts. Pitty. They haven’t discovered that in heaven we will all wear basketball shorts. Because they are the most comfortable, and only good comfortable things will be in heaven, which excludes spandex.

  Warming up I feel the pavement under my feet. I feel my muscles contract, waiting for the uneven cracks that make up the streets, and then the smooth slope of the lombada that slows down the cars since our town has only two traffic lights.

  I dare you to move
  Like today never happened
  
  Maybe redemption has stories to tell
  Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell
  Where can you run to escape from yourself?
  Where you gonna go?
  Where you gonna go?
  Salvation is here
  
  I dare you to move
  
  

  I watch my shadow come and go under the street lights. It is gone—I must have lost it like Peter Pan. Will Wendy sew it back on? The couple sits on the bench under the tree and I look back down at the pavement. At the end of the street I hold my hands out and yell the lyrics pumping in my ears. They are already looking, might as well give them something to talk about as well.

   

  The lights of the city are in front of me. I contemplate “the Hill” but will save it for tomorrow.

   

  Dreaming about providence
  And whether mice or men have second tries
  Maybe we’ve been living with our eyes half open
  Maybe we’re bent and broken, broken
  
  We were meant to live for so much more
  Have we lost ourselves?
  Somewhere we live inside
  
  We want more than this world’s got to offer
  
  

  I turn the corner to head home. Home. Home is the place where you don’t worry about wasting water in the shower, or using up the rest of the toilet paper. I am sure home is much more, but that is what on the top of my head. Home is a refuge, a corner to hide when it rains outside. I have learned how to make home. And be happy. Except for that one little piece of me that will always scream. I think it was made to keep me on my toes. Or to walk on my tiptoes.

   

  Hello, good morning, how ya do?
  What makes your rising sun so new?
  I could use a fresh beginning too
  All of my regrets are nothing new
  
  So this is the way
  that I say that I need You
  This is the way
  This is the way
  
  That I’m learning to breathe
  I’m learning to crawl
  I’m finding that You and
  You alone can break my fall
  
  

  My mind travels faster than my feet, back to the first time I heard that song. On replay in my car, sitting in the park parking lot, facing the swings. Remembering when the swings swung and I would jump off them right when it reached that top weightless part—where for one second there was nothing. And I was learning to breathe again.

  My key turns the lock and I walk up three flights of stairs. Laundry blows on the lines, the roof of our apartment building. This is my place, for I am alone, so I own it.

  The first star that I saw last night was a headlight
  Of a man-made sky, but man- made never made our dreams collide,
  Collide.
  
  Here we are now with the falling sky and the rain,
  We’re awakening
  Here we are now with our desperate youth and the pain,
  We’re awakening
  Maybe it’s called ambition, you’ve been talking in your sleep
  About a dream, we’re awakening

  The little girl in me still cringes in dark spaces, but I walk strong and straight to the edge of the building and hold on to the wall. My city below is alive and moving in the inky sky, the mango tree is blowing darkly. This is where I am, I am here. Something that went to sleep when I wasn’t looking is stirred.

  This is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be
  When the world was younger and you had everything to lose
  
  Don’t close your eyes

  But I do. I close my eyes and sing along. Remembering when Maninho was on the piano, Marcello was on the drums, and Boneco was on the guitar behind me. The wind blowing in my hair, I hit every note perfectly. I am becoming. The me that I want to be. The me I was made to be. The me that looks a lot less like Rachel and a lot more like Jesus. At least I hope so. I hope that someone would come and shake me up if I am way out in left field. I know He would. So until the shake-up I keep walking.

  Cause everything inside looks like
  Everything I hate
  You are the hope I have for change
  You are the only chance I’ll take
  
  When I’m on fire
  When you’re near me
  I’m on fire
  When you speak
  And I’m on fire
  Burning at these mysteries
  These mysteries…
  
  I’m standing on the edge of me

  Mysteries of life. Life is Mystery. It is such a trip. I welcome the burning. As the words empty from my mouth I feel the rest fade. The everything else. The tangles unwind as they release their hold on me and there is only Him. My Lord. I like this place.

  • 10:12 pm
  • Leave a comment