some thoughts on University Park

On two occasions, completely independent of one another, I have been called a German Shepherd. The first time was by a boy whose name I can't recall in my fourth grade class. The second time was by a girl in my 7th grade class, shortly after the movie "All Dogs Go To Heaven 2" came out. This was years later and at a different school in a different state! That simply can't be a coincidence. I've been carrying around this "German Shepherd Complex" ever since. Whenever I happen to be around someone who has one I get nervous. I start sweating and shaking and searching for excuses to get away. It's as if I think the dog owner will pause mid-conversation and say "Hey! I just noticed you kinda look like my dog!" Needless to say, when I am ready for a dog, it will be a Lab or a Husky or a St. Bernard or a Shi Tzu (because I like the name). Jonas fell asleep in my lap just as Brian got home from work. Now I can go running without the jog stroller. I like running at night because nobody else is out. Everyone is at home, finishing dinner. Scraping the last few bites of steak and potatoes into the bowls of their eager German Shepherds. Last night I ran through University Park. I admired all the lovely things I will never have: A gigantic house on top of a hill with a door that I am not allowed to paint because of the Covenant. A sixteen-car garage that I could live in comfortably with my family, and store everything I own and use as a painting studio. A sprinkler system that I would of course only run at night. Grass. Sod (I never liked sod anyway. It's too pretty, like a wig for the earth, just weird). A pension. A sunburn. A souvenir. A reason to do "yardwork." It's uncomfortable, sometimes, to look at other people’s things. Especially things that are so far out of reach. The University Park residents probably worked very hard to afford those waterfalls. Yet I have seen them groan at the prospect of replacing the brake cable on their grandsons' Huffys. Maybe I’m just prejudiced. It hurts sometimes, to see people who have everything. Especially when I know that all Brian wants is an education and a little space to build some bicycles. Sometimes when I’m running, a moment, carrying a thought, containing a solution, passes quickly by. And I wish I could decipher it with Galileo’s insight. I wish I could process it with Sylvia’s words. I wish I could sing it with Aretha’s conviction. I wish I could paint it with Pollock’s nerve. I wish I could summit it with Shea’s lungs and legs. Wish I could top it out with Peter’s strength. Wish I could strum it with Sarah’s guts. Lap it up with the reckless abandon of a German Shepherd. Maybe it was an answer. A simple one, like "You are right here." And I am just grateful that the night is cold because I can see my breath. And this proves I am living.