Walking on broken glass

When I was growing up I loved to play outside. The house we lived in that I most fondly remember sat in the middle of the property with what seemed like huge yards on each side. As this house was in the capital city of a third world banana republic there were some very interesting protective measures that were used to prevent thieves, robbers and even the possible kidnapper (as this was another concern my parents had and seems so much more real as it was about my brother and me, I may return to this later).

On the wall that separated our home from the street were these huge shards of broken glass. They were similar to the one pictured above, though that is not the wall I am referring to. I would often walk the long potions of the wall, maneuvering my small, child sized feet around the broken bottle tops and bottoms, as well as the pieces of plate glass mixed in with other random sharp projectile objects. It was beautifuly made. The cement they were inbedded in was surprisingly smooth and easy to walk on, considering the glass shards that were decorating its surface. Even all these years later, I can still vividly recall moving my feet, gently, slowly, carefully around the pieces. watching my lanky legs poke from under my skirt as I moved one foot in front of the other. I loved doing this and would do it every chance I could, often making sure my parents were not around as they would stop me from this adventurous activity.

All these years later I can recall those images  of my feet and how I placed my foot around each shard of glass and have come to believe that I was performing some form of a walking meditation, a walking prayer, as I navigated the sea of glass on those walls. It felt so pure to do that, I have no recollection of fear nor of worry…. just, that I found deep solace from the upheavals of my youth in navigating a sea of multicolored broken glass.

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