We stop before we even begin. We know to recognize railroad tracks by their rails and the crossing signs, and we know to stop at them. In the same way, I know that changes are the crossroads of my environmental decisions, and with practice I’ve learned to recognize the signs: a flutter in my stomach, a twinge of guilt, the excitement of something new. I recall that I’ll be taking a flight next summer, which uses up a lot of energy. So, we think of small things we can do: carry our own snacks. Pack a water bottle and refill that instead of the many plastic cups they give you on the plane. Buy things made locally by artisans. We also stop by just seeing and appreciating all that we already have around us – why consume more? We stop by simply not doing some things at all - avoiding that car trip, forgoing the to-go cup this once, leaving the lights off. We stop so that our mind gets on track.
Then we look. At the tracks, we look both left and right, because trains can be coming both ways, and we want to see how close they are. We look because when we look, we see what has really happened in the past that we can learn from, and we see what we are convinced is really going to happen in the future. I see how I’ve been avoiding my bicycle on the pretext of a back injury that is mostly healed. I worry that my bike is not ready, that I’m not ready. I admit to my fear that I won’t be able to do it, that I’ll be tired, that it will not be worth it. Only when I accept that am I ready to dust off the gears, and take a ride around the block. It’s glorious with the wind on my face, and I feel ready to ride to school after all, and chat with my daughter on the way back. I see that my fear was empty, because I hadn’t looked back to the times of joy on my bike before, and I hadn’t looked to the possible future of freedom. When we look, we might see the obstacles we put in our own way, and we can keep looking to find solutions. We look so that we don’t get derailed.
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