I have this just unreal view of the Charlotte skyline. It’s the very best part about my apartment (second only, perhaps, to its proximity to Dairy Queen) and is the reason I pay a million dollars a month to live in a home the size of my old bedroom.
Pictures don’t do it justice; she looks small and far away on the other side of a lens, but in real life Charlotte is substantial–a towering force right outside my window. When I first moved in I’d wake up in the middle of the night just to look out the window at the eerie black towers rising up from the horizon. A rainbow of exterior lights illuminates the skyline from dusk until some time in the wee hours of the morning when the city goes black and, unlike New York, she sleeps.
When I sit on the balcony and align my eyes just right, a small two-inch railing erases the entire city. If you’d never been into the apartment and someone sat you down blindfolded, you’d remove the cover off your eyes and say, “What a nice view of the horizon.” Your guide would stand next to you and describe the lights and the jagged edges and the silhouette of a world real enough to touch, and you, from your limited view, would tell her she’s crazy. She’d tell you about the bodies that fill the buildings with their lives and stories and dreams, and you, still seated, would tell her she’s crazy. She’d tell you about her desire to go there and be small in something so big, and you, from where you are, would tell her she’s crazy.
There is less than an inch between you and seeing what she sees, but you sit motionless and tell her she’s crazy.
I think about this when I’m having a hard time seeing the bigger picture, when I can’t see something from someone else’s perspective. Perspective shifts based on where you stand. Consider then that sometimes when you sit–in what you’ve always believed and who you’ve always been–there is an excellent chance it’s blocking your view of something else.
There is less than an inch between you and seeing what she sees.