I ventured out into the cold today (maybe not Wisconsin or Michigan polar-vortex cold), but I had one of those days that I ate a ton of cake in the afternoon and felt guilty about it, so I needed to GO. It was already dark and probably dangerous for a runner with no reflective belt, but I am obstinate.
Up the road was an empty golf course, abandoned for the winter. Dark, crunchy grass framed black sky, and I ran into it to find a line of yellow birch trees on a hill. Have you ever approached a tree at night and think tenderly that it is alive, and you are alive, together on this earth, and that it somehow senses that you are approaching? (Yep, this post will be one of my touchy-feely-poetic ones.) I take my glove off to rest my hand lovingly on the trunk, look vertically up, and I see a dramatic night sky filled with stars. The wind rifles through those branches. I breathe slowly through my nose, and I’m grateful to be alive on this beautiful planet. Can’t feel my toes.
I go further into the darkness up the path and see two gargantuan houses by the sea, get closer, and realize the lights inside glow dimly red. What the hell! Creepy! Makes me think I could be the next unwitting new member of a dark séance. I can’t help it but jog closer, thinking “Curiosity killed the Kim!” “You’re a dumbass!” Then I realize that red is from the Exit signs because it’s a commercial house with some sort of building regulation…duh. I peer into the windows and see a nice staircase and pretty furniture. I imagine summertime here: breezy long grassy hills rolling down to the ocean and a lady in a rose petal dress serving crumpets and tea to white men golfers. Right now, it’s frozen and salty and abandoned; the house is in hibernation. The exit signs tell me to go away.
Keep going. I run onto a creaky wooden pier that leads to a “No Trespassing” area makes me want to break into it. So much salt and ice. Can’t feel my goddam toes. There’s a collection of what looks to be large wood-trimmed houses converted into either laboratories or research centers. A sign says, “Ecosystems Center of the Marine Biological Laboratory,” blue on white-painted wood. I peer into 3rd story bright large windows to see rows of elegant equipment, and I quietly watch a thin woman put her coat on and imagine her plant-lined office full of sea creatures she keeps in tanks that she’s experimenting on, or secretly caring for, or both. I see big, wondrous ships docked and flanked by little lights; I guess they are also hibernating for the winter. I think to myself, What lucky scientists get to work here? Next to a quaint, almost-lost aquarium at the very corner of New England? I’m getting delightedly lost.
Dude. It hits me. I work here. Surprise: it’s the Bigelow Lab, and I just made a giant circle around an enclosed bay. And I’m so glad because I badly need to go to the restroom.
Moral of the story: see the world as a child again. You’ll be delighted to see what you have in front of you with new eyes, at different angles. There are a myriad of worlds to appreciate right in front of all of us.
(Note: Kimberly Jung is a member of the One in a Billion storytelling community. She first contributed her voice to our podcast in Season 2 “Breaking Barriers” and “Keep Climbing.” This blog first appeared on Kimberly Jung’s Facebook page. It is unedited and published with her permission.)