Cardboard Kingdoms

I remember building cardboard kingdoms in fourth grade. We watched a movie where power was erected through stones and mortar and maintained by the guillotine, and then our teacher instructed us to build our own. So I ate up my rice krispies and stashed away its box. Until one day I had collected a considerable pile of trash, not unlike the rocks and mortar that built a moat around privilege and wealth and refused to let anyone else enter.

The edges needed to be ridged so there were spaces to hide the weapons, and the princess could be protected. There needed to be a bridge that could lower and rise to carefully control the flow of entry.  There are some for which the doors are open and others that will never see the other side of the lifted planks.

In hindsight I think I would have been better served recycling the cardboard, finding a park and sitting down to share my rice krispies. That’s the thing about power, it looks good from the outside, but once you step in and the moat is surrounding you, you are alone. That is when you realize that your prize is made of garbage and when it rains the entire structure will turn to pulp.

photo source: https://unsplash.com/search/castle?photo=5YtjgRNTli4 

Floating On

I nestled my chin into my jacket as the cold air whipped against my skin on my bike ride to work, when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.  He was making his way to the office in the opposite direction.  Despite all our failings and my better judgement I could not help but wonder why our paths continued to cross.  I looked away because I couldn’t stare rejection in the eyes, because I was scared.  So I squinted with intent focus and felt my legs go weak with heaviness, as I softly whispered to myself just keep going.  Once the figure had passed in my periphery I let out a sigh of relief, and everything became easier: movement, breath and being.

Rejection was behind me and I could move forward.

As I approached the pedestrian bridge I  shifted my path around a pickup truck.  I watched as men with large steel toed boots and offensively orange jackets closed the blades of their industrial cutters around the fragile necks of the secured locks that adorned the bridges rails.  Orange jackets and armoured men nonchalantly breaking commitments pledged by strangers.  They worked with a detachment and finality that could cut through more than metal.  As I rode by, I slowed, sensing their purpose was larger than the assignment of lightening the bridge.  They were making space for new love.

I looked down and I saw the ducks.  They bobbed as the water drifted them downstream, currents keeping them together or bringing them further away from the others around them.  They surrendered themselves to the waters and spun along with the flow, wanting nothing more or less than to be, and to move on.

I suppose it’s time to focus my eyes on the road ahead, find some protective gear, and let the river take me where it chooses.