I was walking from the office to the parking garage today and realized I was looking down. Down at my feet, down at the sidewalk, down at the crosswalk, down at my cell-phone, down at the cut on my thumb. Down. Even when I was looking “up” I wasn’t even level with the horizon. I was looking over the heads of the sparse crowd, at the top of cars, trucks, buses, maybe as high as a road sign.
I must have been feeling adventurous today. I decided to break the routine, the muscle memory, of such a short range of motion. I extended the muscles that reach to my chin and down into my chest, and contracted the muscles that connect at the base of my skull and connect to various parts of my neck, shoulders, and back.
I looked up.
Way up. I looked at the top of light posts. The top of the parking garage I was walking towards. The top of the office building off to my right. Then I gazed even farther up and looked at the deep blue sky. I noticed the criss-cross of contrails left in the wake of jet planes flying off to wherever it was they needed to fly to. I was even lucky enough to see a jet, slicing through the sky, leaving a stream of crystalized water vapor at 38,000 feet or so above me.
I stopped for a split second on the sidewalk, just before the turn I needed to make to enter the parking garage. All of this. Everything that is above the level of the horizon. There is so much to see. So much to wonder about. So much to explore. So many questions to ask.
Where was that jet flying to? Who works in the corner office at the top of that building? Why does the top most level of the parking garage not have a roof? Why do our Capital building have a dome at the center?
I will never know exactly where that jet was flying to, but I’m glad that I noticed it. I’m glad that I looked up that high in the sky and took a moment to see and wonder.
Take a moment today to step outside and look up.