things to do in the belly of the whale

My shoes thumped the city sidewalk. 

They pounded out a runner’s rhythm as I made my way from one block to the next.

I was close enough to the end of my 5K run and far enough from the Charlotte Ballet building where Zeke was dancing to slow down to a steady walk and allow my racing heartbeat to become a resting heartbeat before I reached my day’s finish line.

Along my route, I passed poems on the brick walls of inner-city buildings.

One of the poems was by Dan Albergotti, who is a teacher and the Dean of the English Department at Coastal Carolina University. 

It was titled “Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale.’ 

Since I love whales, and am trying to become a whale genius, I stopped to read the poem.

       Measure the walls. Count the ribs. 

       Notch the long days. Look up for

       blue sky through the spout. Make

       small fires with the broken hulls of

       of fishing boats. Practice smoke

       signals. Call old friends, and listen

       for echoes of distant voices. 

       Organize your calendar. Dream of 

       the beach. Look each way for the 

       dim glow of light. Work on your 

       reports. Review each of your life’s

       ten million choices. Endure moments

       of self loathing. Find the evidence of

       those before you. Destroy it. Try to be

       very quiet, and listen for the sound of

       gears and moving water. Listen for the

       sound of your heart. Be thankful that

       you are here, swallowed with all hope,

       where you can rest and wait. Be

       nostalgic. Think of all the things you

       did and could have done. Remember

       treading water in the center of the

       still night sea, your toes pointing again

       and again down, down into the black

       depths.

It’s about listening, learning and living in a world full of talking, ignoring and dying. 

It’s beautifuI. 

I was thinking about it as the Charlotte Ballet came into sight.

I looked down to my right hand side and saw a styrofoam bowl of soup. 

It was filled with rain water from the morning rain. 

Little bits of shredded meat, sliced carrots and baby potatoes were floating at it’s rim. 

It was sitting on a three block high green painted concrete wall that ran along the side of the sidewalk.

I looked down to my left hand side and saw a small loaf of Italian bread. 

It was laying on it’s side in a muddy puddle in a pothole in the street. 

It was split in the middle with tiny crumbs all around it.

“Soup and bread,” I thought. 

“The simplest elements. The simplest meal. A meal, simply. A simple meal, elementally.”

I looked up. 

An old couple was in front of me, sitting hand in hand on the wall, looking at me with kind eyes the color of smooth, brown stones and kind smiles the color of the sun shining out through the broken clouds.  

“How you doin’ today?” they asked.

“I’m doin’ good,” I answered. “Real good. How ‘bout you?”

“We’re doin’ real good, too. Hope you have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

“People and words,” I thought. The simplest elements. The simplest kindness. Being kind, simply. Simple kindness, elementally.

I passed by the Charlotte Public Library. 

The librarians have placed signs on support columns with quotes on them from some of the greatest writers in the world.

One of the signs stopped me mid stride and brought me back to it.

“A word is worth a thousand pictures,” wrote Elie Wiesel.

Poetry.

Beauty.

Elements.

Soup.

Bread.

Human beings.

Kindness.

Words.

Yes.