Last night, a volunteer orientation at the Ella Baker Center kept me in downtown Oakland. I walked along the rim of Lake Merritt from the Produce District to Uptown. At the end of the day, the shadows lie so long across Snow Park. I've always loved early evenings, especially in the summer, especially in the city. The city exhales.
Or this is what I saw.
The city exhales for me because I exhale. But even as I breathed out and shook out my joints, I saw two custodians pushing a cart overloaded with janitorial supplies up to an emptying office building on Broadway, the younger woman twisting her long ponytail up into a bun. Above me, a crew of lean young men scrubbed windows.
My day winds down and the evening is mine. I can read or cook or hike or sit in the garden or shoot photographs or linger on the phone or volunteer. It's easy to forget how precious that is. I am free of basic worries. My work is dear to me, and I am treated with respect and kindness. I earn a living wage and so when I go to the grocery, I don't stand in the aisles doing math on a growling stomach. I am often sick and fatigued, but my body is basically sound; my legs carry me wherever I need to go.
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