“Walking meditation is first and foremost a practice to bring body and mind together peacefully.”
– Thích Nhất Hạnh
“But what if I should discover that…the poorest of all the beggars, the most impudent of all the offenders, the very enemy himself—that these are within me…what then?”
– Carl Jung
I shorten my stride,
focus on my breath—in, out,
deep, slow—trying to bring body
and mind together peacefully,
to imitate the tight-lipped monks
circling their ashrams,
but my mind
is less obedient than my mutt,
part Rottweiler, part Shepherd,
who—though agitated
by the chatty squirrels
that dart perilously close
as if to prove their bravery—
still stays by my side, wants them less
than he wants to hear good boy,
a few scratches under his chin.
So, we walk—quiet, conflicted—
the sky darkens,
squirrels retreat to their nests,
and we find ourselves
under the graffitied bridge
most people avoid when, suddenly,
another set of footfalls join mine,
distant innocuous echoes
at first, and then faster, louder,
until my fearful imagination
works itself into a lather,
all thoughts of peace and monks
immolated here on the sidewalk
and in this pile of ash
is my pride, which, until now,
had held my gaze forward,
so finally, I turn and lock eyes
with the hooded Black teenager
trailing some 15 feet behind,
and despite my indignation—
my sorrow for Black boys laid low
because they were hooded and Black—
despite it, I pick up the pace,
glance over my shoulder
every few steps, watch the distance between us
shrink, consider running, loosing
the dog, wonder for the millionth time
if the city is safe, if I need
a gun, and what I would do now
if I had one,
but when I turn again—
to confront him this time—
he nods then crosses over
to the other side of the street,
to my great relief
and shame.
Is this the terrible mercy
he’s already learned
to show white people,
or has he considered
how this night
could end—flashing lights,
crying mothers, Tamir was murdered
just a few blocks from here—
or does his crossing
have nothing to do with me
or the stories I tell?
Walking is too slow—
I want to run
from the worst parts of myself
like my dog kicks away from me
in leashless dreams. I want to
chase down goodness and carry it softly back
between my sharp and treacherous teeth.
