The sixth floor window, blocked off by a glass box from the inside, is the second from the top on the far right. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
From the second floor, I see through the window a constant flow out on the street below.
Cell phone talkers and coffee toters and badge wearers scrubbed in purple and blue. Orange-shirted construction workers checking out the scrubs from under their dirty hardhats.
Wheelchair runner (Photo credit: Deadly Tedly)
Two youngish men in electric wheelchairs roll up to the corner. One, his leg crossed high over the other leg like he’s sitting at a board meeting, zips through the intersection and down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of clumps of fast-footed and more leisurely walkers. Directly on his heels, his partner, who instantly slows, casts a sidelong glance at a cute coffee toter, gets her to laugh, then off he goes—it’s catch up time. These guys must play a lot of wheelchair basketball.
But mostly, this is a walking culture. The preferred means of travel in this part of the city.
Even drivers know to take it slow, yielding to the two-legged cross traffic. Not one motorist seems rushed. Well, except for the cowboys on their electric horses and a cartoonishly-dressed skater leaving a kaleidoscope of color in his wake, his psychedelic scarf trailing in the air behind him. He blows past the metal crawl while drivers cock their heads, wistfully eying his backside: “If only I had a skateboard.”
cirrocumulous? (Photo credit: framboise)
Above me, strewn on a bed of baby blanket blue are yards of batting-looking clouds, being pulled slowly apart by a current of air, looking more and more like an overused blanket. Another current veers off and swings down between two well-endowed date-bearing palms, delicately lifting and dipping their coiffed fronds. They seem to be waving. Hello? Goodbye? Who knows?
Perched below those lusciously dated fronds, on a whitewashed boulder in the middle of a well-watered lawn, towers a bronze likeness of John Sutter in his knee-high boots, dungarees, short coat, scarf and cowboy hat, a thick-mustache, and his right leg bent determinedly at the knee. Like everything and everyone else, he seems to be going somewhere.
And here I am, sitting and wondering in the lobby of the second floor medical building, awaiting test results. Not mine. My daughter’s. Of course, my thoughts run here and there, until they weary themselves at last on the simple fact that God really is in control.
I sit back against the cushioned chair, rest my head against the wall, and close my eyes. Be still, I tell myself. And know that He is God.
The Will Of God... 