It is the first day of the last month. As the calendar would have us know it. Yet it feels like we are heading towards the middle of something. Not the end. The sky is grey and swollen. It grumbles and disintegrates into drops that soak my face and mind.
When the ground is wet the noise of the traffic travels. Heavy, fibrous and penetrating.
Waiting-after-the-fact – Gavin-Birchall
I stand at the kerb as the cars roar past. The busy, main highway abruptly ends the quiet sub-urban road our house stands next to with an irresistible swipe. Water is everywhere. It is joining everything. Still dim at this latitude, the morning is pierced by headlights you can see side on. Tiny darts of rain slicing through the bright beams. The noise, the noise, the noise is so loud as the cars speed past and the people in the cars speed past and the worlds they live in speed past. An endless stream of cars and people and worlds. The senses are overcome in this ordinary place, this ordinary way. Every day, the same, at the end of the quiet sub-urban road our house stands next to.
I am near the end of my run. The main road to cross then our own road to navigate, weaving through the sparkling cars depositing school children and pulling away without missing a beat. Then as the school run fades and my own run follows, the path will become clear and I will be home, for a warm shower and a hot cup of tea.
I wait. The traffic continues to come. Into the heart of this small, Northern city from the surrounding towns and villages. The traffic lights that let the kids cross provide a kind of beat in the flow. I know there will be a pause soon. So I wait. I wait and breathe and think of the exhaust fumes as my bodies systems settle after running.
I should have walked to the traffic lights. I know I should. But there is often a pause. Always a pause. I’ve done this hundreds of times before.
The waiting extends. It seems longer than usual. White, wet traffic noise. Strobing, bright headlights. Clinging, close waterproofs. So many moving cars and bodies. Sinking, metal air to breath. Waiting longer than usual. The fierce intensity of sensation elongating felt time.
If the traffic never stops I am here forever. I could be here forever. There is no pause. There is no past and no future. There is nowhere else to go. There is only this. If I am here forever, how can I best know the fullness and beauty of the moment I am in? How can I relish even this too intense, over whelming, visitor only moment that is my real home?
That-cup-of-tea – Gavin-Birchall
There is a break in the traffic.
I cross the road carrying my pristine, rolling, forever moment with me.
All the way to our house and to that cup of tea.
Often the act of realising where we are is enough to change our worlds in unexpected ways. Even crossing the road. Coaching can provide a place where this becomes more possible.