Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Searching for the Image

This afternoon I sit outside staring at the intersection of Eighteenth Street and Connecticut Avenue. Men in suits, men in shorts, women in dresses, women in pants move by. I correct a couple of typographical errors. The sky is a very pale almost colorless shade of blue. The Sunlight feels warm against my skin. A breeze teases the paper sheets in my notepad. A white Jeep, a red nondescript minivan and a red hatchback wait for the traffic light to change. Life continues. People move by me. Some are smiling, some are frowning. Some have white wires dangling from their ears. Some have rectangular cell phone against their faces. Every now and then a group of talking and laughing adults move by. But, this afternoon more people are alone, walking alone, running alone. Some walk quickly with purpose, some creep by slowly. Some carry paper shopping backs, other leather-like briefcases. A column of cars approach from the south, pass by. Two men on bicycles one wearing a helmet, the other not move by. A bus half empty goes north on Eighteenth Street. Near me a woman talks about an event where journalists are not allowed, she discusses the cocktail hour. She is confused about how some of the speakers will be able to present their papers to the group. A man in a slightly faded red shirt locks his bike up, then pushes his shirt into his pants before walking into the shop. A big black backpack dominates his back. The woman talks about meals, vegetarian meals, salmon is the new vegetarian. A man in a white shirt briefly holds the glass door open for a woman in pale green slacks and a tan blouse with a blue and green design. She wears a necklace that looks like hard tinsel.

And there is laughter. And people walk by carrying bottles, carrying boxes. There are women in sleeveless tops, women in shorts. There are women laughing about someone getting divorced, laughing about someone who announced his impending divorce. Overhead a helicopter flies in the colorless sky.

And the beauty of this day is the unasked question, the unspoken statement. Motion exists. Movement remains visible.

The image of God, seeking the image of God on a Wednesday afternoon in Washington, DC as a helicopter flies overhead, as a woman with dark hair walks by carrying a baby.

The breeze returns. The vegetarian meal returns to the conversation. Another typographical error occurs, is corrected.

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