Oh hey there. I bet you’re surprised to see me. You’re not alone… cuz I’m here!
There’s been a lot of talk these days about how I need to write more often (or at all), and yes, I’m the one doin’ all the talking. I figure it’s about time for me to put my keyboard where my mouth is. So here goes…
jfdapkljkldfklanvmkldsa;j yuck that was a horrible idea. Not tasty at all. And when’s the last time I washed my keyboard????
But enough about me, let’s get on with the post. One of the things I’m trying to make into a daily habit/routine is getting a little more walking into my daily routine/habit. Circle of life, deal with it. So on those days when I don’t bring lunch to work with me and when I remember to take a lunch break (also a routine I should work on), I pop down to either the cafeteria or Subway to grab a sammich or wrap. Lately I’ve been taking the stairs (gasp). That gasp was me being all out of breath from taking the stairs, not being surprised that I was actually taking the stairs. I like going down the stairs a whole lot more than climbing up, although they both kinda burn the booty.
But this isn’t a post about stair climbing. You wanna know what it’s a post about? (I don’t know why else you would be reading this)
On the way down the stairs today, I noticed that by each entrance into the building there is a sign that says “Area of Refuge”. I know that it’s there for people who might need assistance getting out of the building if there is a fire (or fire drill) and the elevators are not accessible, and it’s right by a phone so that you can call for assistance. I thought about calling for assistance to get me back up the flights of stairs to my office, but decided that might not be the best use of what I am sure are already strained resources. (and carrying me would quite possibly strain them way too much!) So I kept climbing, and started thinking about fire alarms and penguins and why didn’t I wear my fitbit, and the chain o’ thoughts in the head o’ the Hathaway brought me around to these:
It might not be coincidence that Refugee and refuge are so closely spelled. (topic for another day)
My bright white legs could light the way if anyone needed guidance to an area of refuge
I should buy a boat
But what I settled on for further pondering and possible bloggage was this…
We all need an Area of Refuge. Not a place in the stairwell from which we can call for assistance (unless you’re into that), but a place where we can attain the Oxford definition of refuge.
a condition of being safe or sheltered from pursuit, danger, or trouble
I have some worries about money and about missing family and about missing that deadline at work, but I almost never don’t feel safe. (It’s my site and I’ll use whatever horrible grammar I want). My life is pretty much an area of refuge.
I read stories every day about people and animals who are abused or neglected or left without the basics of life… you know, food, shelter, love, puppies… and I can’t imagine how it must be to not have a place to go where you are safe from pursuit, danger or trouble. I know “without” is a way of life for so many, and I’m humbled by and thankful for the reminders of just how much I have. There are those who don’t know where their next meal is coming from (mine is coming from HopJacks, thank you very much), or where they’re going to sleep tonight (I’ll be tucked into my queen size bed with the white noise machine on), or even if they’re going to wake up in the morning (ok so nobody really knows that one, but I know there will be coffee waiting).
(It does not suck to be Dee Hathaway)
I’m lucky enough to fairly consistently feel safe and sheltered, and to have food, shelter, love and yes, puppies. But even I have times when I feel like I need refuge, when I could use a place to go where I feel safe from the world of demands and attention and traffic and deadlines and where I can just be… Dee. A place of refuge where I don’t have to worry about what people think or how much money I owe or make. A place where I believe I’m funny and handsome and worthy in spite of my white legs and where, even when the world treats me like a 4, I’m a 10.
I’m a lucky guy, cuz I have that place. And I’m lucky that I can come here and share all of that with you. This is, and you are, the place where I feel most safe. You are my area of refuge.
So tell me, dear reader(s)… where is your Area of Refuge? Where do you feel safe?