I'm seeing the details again like how the paint is cracking and curling on the corner of the old building downtown. Like the intricate pattern carved into the old wooden door of the tavern I used to frequent in college. Like the old-fashioned barbershop pole. Like the mysterious stickers for local bands which are slapped onto a Do Not Enter sign at the opening of the alley way off 8th Street.
Walking briskly to my lunch date location in the crisp winter air, I am listening to new music I have never heard before. I hear each note individually and how they work together make up the whole song. I find myself humming out loud as I walk, a smile creeping across my face. This is intermingled with the sounds of traffic, a young man playing guitar in front of the bank and a jack hammer busting up some concrete in front of the pool hall.
I notice the nuances of the font on the sign of new apartment building. I see a discarded cup from a local bar tucked safely into a storefront corner. I smell fresh bread baking at the sandwich shop and sawdust from the construction site. I hear snippets of conversations as I pass people on the sidewalk. I inhale some second-hand clove cigarette smoke as I pass two women chatting.
I see the latest fashions in the windows. A forgotten Christmas wreath still adorning the top of the Strollway Centre. I see hand-lettered signs offering lunch specials and happy hour prices. I hear children laughing and playing in the corner church's preschool playground. I see someone sleeping off one too many on a park bench.
When I gave myself permission to let go of the pressure and the deadlines and responsibilities - even if just for a ten-minute walk - the flood gates opened and all the little things came tumbling into my perception. The images, the songs, the smells, the feel of the uneven pavement beneath my sensible work shoes. This is where the stories live. It's all about the little things...
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