sunrise.

Even after all this time,
the sun never says to the earth,
“You owe me.”
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights the whole sky.
-Hafiz

I moved this summer, to an apartment within a residence hall in Downtown Portland. Not that my previous apartment — one within a residence hall in Northeast Portland — had me that much more connected to the Earth, but this move seemed to take me just a bit farther from nature. I’m in the middle of a 14-story building filled with college students, in the middle of Portland State University’s campus, in the middle of the concrete and tall buildings and mass transit systems that make up our city. I live on the most populated block in Portland; humans and human-made things surround me.

However, this shift back to the hustle-hustle-hustle pace of Downtown wasn’t much of a shock to me. I knew what living Downtown felt like, and I was excited about the chance to be so close to everything again, so connected to the pulse of this city, to have so few needs for my car on a regular basis. I was excited to be woken up in the early morning because of the garbage trucks, to hear the bells from the MAX as I fell asleep, to know any time there’s a fire or emergency because of the sirens. This kind of connectedness to the heart of things felt good to me. And still feels good.

I didn’t grow up in a traditionally outdoorsy family. It was my mom and me, in North Dakota, which is winter and well-below freezing most of the time. I didn’t like camping, or hiking, or ogle at and respect the landscape around me. It didn't seem like anything special to me; it just was. However, I did spend most of my childhood summers outdoors, at my grandparents’ house, and can still remember staying outside — running through my grandma’s huge flower garden, racing my cousins on our bikes up and down (and up and down, and up and down) the gravel driveway, lying on the grass after a water gun fight — until the sun set. Their Minnesota home was surrounded by fields that stretched for miles, crops sprouting out of the black earth, other homes and humans just specks in the distance. As the sky darkened, and my grandma or grandpa would call us in closer to the house, we’d look out over those fields and see this perfectly round, orange-yellow-red ball floating over the sky and down through the fields. And I remember being fascinated by how this sun thing worked, even as a kid who never had any interest in science other than making volcanoes out of baking soda and water.

“But where did it go?” I would think. ”You’re telling me that little ball lights up the whole sky? For EVERYONE on earth?”

Now, if I can time it right, I wake up with the sunrise. It’s getting harder as we move further into autumn and the sun comes up later while the time I have to be at work doesn’t, but even if I’m already awake, I make a conscious effort to move toward one of my two, five-foot by five-foot east-facing windows and pause. Take a deep breath. Look out. Sometimes I’ll stand with a cup of coffee, or with my hair halfway curled, or even when I’m already running a bit late for that early morning meeting. And from my 9th story apartment, I see the sun rise up over the hills. I can even see a corner of Mt. Hood defiantly peeking around the three tall buildings that block most of its view, with the sunshine behind it. The sky does all sorts of tricks within a five-to-ten-minute period of the sun stretching out over the landscape. Sometimes, it streaks yellows and oranges and pinks through strips of the remaining darkness. Sometimes, the whole sky turns bright pink. Sometimes, like on Wednesday morning, the sun rose through a thick layer of fog — fog so thick that I couldn’t see the bridges or traffic or river. But even when the clouds are heavy, hanging over the city without any glimmer of hope that Portland will see the actual sun that day, it still rises. It still shows up for the city, for us, for the world.

Watching the sun rise has been one of the most powerful experiences of my summer, one that has shaped my time in this new job, in this new apartment, and in some ways, in this new life. To begin each day being greeted by the sun — being grounded by this little orange-yellow-red ball that lights up the whole sky, for everyone in the world, no matter what — and to be reminded that I’m surrounded by nature, by earthiness, even though I live in an apartment within a residence hall in Downtown Portland. It reminds me that just by doing what it does, nature shows us that it loves us every single day. The sun rising, the rain falling, the plants growing, the leaves dropping, the clouds parting, even if just for a moment. And maybe — even if we’re planted in the middle of a bunch of concrete and human-made things — we can show it that we love it, too, by taking a moment to pause in reverence to whatever nature is around us.

these leaves.

I've seen a lot of things on the news and in my newsfeed that have made me cringe or cry or both in the last week. Humans are messy (good grief, we're the messiest -- we need some Clorox wipes or a bath or something) and so are the things we do or say or post, and the things that we choose not to do or say or post. Sometimes it feels like no one cares about or loves or fights for each other anymore. Sometimes the world is depressing and you're certain that the light at the end of the tunnel is actually, definitely a big-ass train coming straight for all of us. That we're doomed.

So, with this in mind, posting a picture of my feet on the fall leaves, with my big-ass satchel and denim dress didn't seem right. (You've seen hipster Barbie's Instagram account, right? I fear she will use this photo as inspiration for her next post.) It made me feel out of touch with the realities and struggles of the world, too inwardly-turned in the midst of so much turmoil on this Earth. There are much more important things in the world to post about and talk about and raise our voices about than my feet and fall's arrival. I can think of ten off the top of my head right now. I'm sure I could think of another twenty if I really tried.

However. Here it is. My feet, my big-ass satchel, the fall leaves. Instagram Post #617. This post will be one of hundreds that will plaster the social network as the leaves begin to change colors, boots are pulled out of closets, and the Pumpkin Spice Latte makes it's return (which, as a new coffee drinker, I'm stoked to try for the first time). It will show up under #fallfeet and #fallishere and maybe be liked by people from around the world who are scrolling through the hashtags, spending their mental energy finding other people who have taken photos of their feet, their big-ass satchels, and the fall leaves. We live in a messy world, a world where we can mindlessly scroll on Instagram for hours and forget about those ten things that are much more important than the mindless scroll. We live in a messy world, where we can't even open the app for 48 hours because it seems so stupid compared to what's happening outside of the screen. 

So I'm finding middle ground, or trying to, to bridge those two messy realities. This picture is a #feetstagram, yes, but it's also a virtual representation of a pause that we all desperately need. A reminder that it's okay to take a deep breath (and a deep break) from all of the cringe- and cry-worthy things so we can show up to them again. And raise our voices and talk and post about them again. Taking a break (or posting a photo of our feet or our coffee or our face) doesn't mean that we care less or are no longer "good," conscious people or that we're banned from ever being social justice advocates or activists ever again. It means we are human. That we can't always take in everything that the world and the news and our newsfeeds throw at us. That we need to focus our attention on something like Instagram or Buzzfeed quizzes or Gilmore Girls to give ourselves a break.

And yet. It's not fair that some of us get to take a break, when so many humans have literally been running for refuge for days and months and, for some, years; or to take a photo of our feet, when so many of those humans' feet are tired and heavy and sore; or to take a moment to welcome fall outside our homes, when so many humans have not yet found a welcome place to call home. It's not fair, and that's shitty, and that makes me want to cringe and cry some more. But that's the reality of this messy world. And so we do what we can to try to cultivate a life where we're able to show up to the realities of the world as much as we can. Even if that means a photo of our feet.

It happened as I walked across the street to my apartment. I had just been driving in my car from a lunch date with a good friend. I was stuck in unexpected traffic and crabby, and so I (naturally) started replaying the images and articles that I'd come across on the news and in my newsfeed over the last 48 hours. I finally parked my car after 30 minutes of existential crisis. I felt physically exhausted, and I was still supposed to meet someone to go on a run (my first in at least two months) in twenty minutes. I needed a pause. As I walked across the street toward my apartment and stepped onto the curb, I looked down -- and found these leaves.

These leaves caused me -- for the briefest moment -- to see the light at the end of the tunnel as actual light and not a train of impending doom. These leaves reminded me that there are snippets of love and real light in the midst of the cringes and cries that show up on Facebook and CNN. These leaves reminded me to pause and think about all of those who cannot pause, who cannot rest, who cannot find welcome. To whisper a tiny little prayer for them, and for the world, that we may act and speak and care and love others.

To whisper a tiny little prayer for me, for us, that we may care for and love ourselves in the midst of that, too.