Sometimes at night, when my head is too full of thoughts that refuse to stop spinning, I have been known to just get out and walk the quiet, dimly lit streets of the city.
Darkness makes the world a different place - it's as if each block you pass has been left to you by the faces that had claimed it during the day. The glow of the street lamps, the whispering of the wind in the trees, and the occasional passing vehicle only punctuate the surrounding stillness that is your own, small universe.
It began for me as a young adult. The summer after my freshman year in college, I stayed with my parents (who had just moved back to upstate New York after living in Indiana for four years). I would find myself awake at odd hours - sometimes 4am, with nothing but a buzzing energy inside of me. I would leave the house, walk down the hill, and wander into the playground of my old elementary school. There, they had the best kind of swings - long chains attached to a rectangular rubbery seat a few feet off the ground. I was grateful for the lack of squeaking as I pumped my legs, swinging higher and higher over the grass until I felt I could touch the sky. With a smile on my face and the wind at my back, I would watch the sun peek over the edge of the schoolyard. As the night became day, the buzz would begin to quiet. I would eventually climb back up the hill to the house, slip silently up the stairs, and settle back into sleep.
Later in my college years, I developed the bad habit of walking across campus by myself at night. Without a roommate or anyone watching the doors, it was easy to come and go unnoticed. The tiny little lake down the street from my dorm was the usual destination - and regardless of how laughably small it was, it still held the power to reflect the stars in a touchingly quaint way. Now that I look back on it, of course, I was probably fairly lucky that I never once found any trouble on those evenings. I didn't care at the time, though. I just needed to be out.
Later, when I was married and living in Joliet, I was fortunate enough to live in the most lovely walking neighborhood I've ever found - it was the heart of the historic district, and our street was lined with huge old oaks, Victorian streetlamps, and a boulevard lit with Italian lights. Gorgeous old homes with wraparound porches stood like sentinels behind their manicured lawns, and the churches still rang their bells throughout the evening.
Some nights, when I couldn't sleep, I would find myself walking quietly to the Cathedral. Down the sidewalk, along the covered walkway, and through meticulously carved arches, there was a small garden. In the center was a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by the loveliest roses. I never saw anyone else there after dark...it was its own tiny world, removed from the city. Once, after a particularly difficult evening, I found myself curled up in the grass beside the roses, watching the stars. My mind began to drift, and the peace I had so desperately prayed for slowly came.
When I awoke, the sun was rising. I was covered in dew. I picked myself up, walked home, and crawled into bed smelling of roses and night air. I slept in that morning, finally content.
One of my poorer choices of adventure came in Memphis, Tennessee. I was there on business with K, and we were in a crowded piano bar on Beale Street. I had been drinking, and found myself in the mindset of the angsty drunk. The bar was too loud, the people too close. I had no choice but to leave.
I decided, on a complete whim, to walk back to the hotel. Downtown Memphis isn't exactly a cornerstone of culture and niceties at 1am, but I didn't care. The city was mine. I strolled confidently down the street, humming a song to myself with my head thrown back in the breeze. No one approached me during that mile-long trek, and at the time I felt it was because I was invicible. My mind cleared, the city slept, and by the time I reached the hotel, I was both sober and relaxed. It was worth the reproving looks and short lecture in the morning.
I wish I knew why the night air is so centering. Somehow, it brings both a sense of solitude and a connection to the universe as a whole. Everything is cleaner and more precise. Light dances through leaves with a shimmering beauty all its own, and the smells are always sweeter; more delicate. It's a reaffirmation of individuality, and a reminder that every moment is precious.
This past summer, I was with P one evening, and the restlessness set in. It was late, and I felt the old, familiar buzzing in my head. I was restless, and knew that sleep would not come without a fight. When I told him that I was going to go out and walk, he looked at me as if I'd sprouted horns. Chicago at night, after all, is probably a lot less safe than Memphis. After a moment, he realized I was serious. He grabbed for his shoes and announced he was coming with me.
At first, it was odd, walking with someone at night. I wasn't sure if I could find what I was looking for if I had to share my sidewalk with someone else. How could I find the solitude of the night if there was another person on my heels?
But somehow, it worked. We strolled through quiet, residential streets, and he stood back to let me stop and marvel at the rustling leaves in the singular glow of the streetlamps. We strayed into hidden gardens, searched (to no avail) for an accessible swingset, and ventured into dead-end darkened alleys to see what we could see.
At the Church of the Transfiguration, we paused to reflect on the statue of Jesus that stood in front. It was an old statue, and Jesus' fingers had either worn or been chipped away over the years. In its own way, it was a hauntingly sad, beautiful piece. We said a prayer to the Broken Fingered Jesus, and went on our way.
That night, as all the otherson which I walked, I slept.
It seems that peace really is out there. It's just that sometimes, it's hiding in a dark place...and you have to be willing to go looking for it if you truly want it.
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3:57 PM | 
Posted by
Christine
