The World Before I Know

Before I check the election returns, my ear keens to the way my neighbor closes her hallway door. It tunes in like a radio dial to a man clearing his throat on the sidewalk below… to how a garbage truck accelerates in the alley… how much pressure on the pedal, how emotional the squeak of the breaks. Because I assume all these people already know. The presidential election results may not be in for a while. But people who are up and about likely know more about who’s winning (or who won) than I do.

Instead of opening my phone to check, I curl up in a stiff wooden chair near a window, close my eyes and feel the sun. Maybe I’m playing a guessing game. What can I sense about the world before I check the news? I go quiet to feel the day. I feel some spaciousness, bright light, stillness, expanse. Outside the open window, I can sense edginess, preparedness, calm, shallow breathing, tension, readiness, and some more stillness that I can’t read. There are subtle breezes that feel a little bit like joy, and my hope clings to that. Part of me wants the news to be good so that I can breathe easy again. But then, I do not like feeling that my breath depends on the news.

I get tired of the game and want to put my bare feet on the ground outside. Because after last night’s election experience, my spirit feels curled up inside my body like the coiled-up tendrils of a plant, or like the legs…