The Poet Dunbar, or, Something About Sanctity

O Lord, the hard–won miles
Have worn my stumbling feet:
Oh, soothe me with thy smiles,
And make my life complete.

The thorns were thick and keen
Where’er I trembling trod;
The way was long between
My wounded feet and God.

Where healing waters flow
Do thou my footsteps lead.
My heart is aching so;
Thy gracious balm I need.

- Paul Laurence Dunbar, “A Prayer,” 1895

I was blessed by a poet. 

One of the cool things about living in Downtown Lynchburg are the beautiful nature trails that weave the fertile banks of the James River. These generous paths are sanctified by the local bicyclists, hikers, joggers and walkers. I used to jog on those happy trails—until one day—I discovered the running track at the Paul Laurence Dunbar Middle School For Innovation. 

My new sanctuary. 

I've had a few sacred places in my life. When I lived in Echo Park, my kitchen nook was The Joint. The nook was a modest built-in-table-for-two with a café light for good vibes. It even had a low-budget view of the Hollywood basin and windows that opened out, not up. Everything was better in the nook. When I lived in Washington Heights, the Hudson River was my front yard and Guru. I would contemplate the teachings of my Master from every window in the apartment.

I am constantly on the look-out for enlightenment. 

The Dunbar track was close to home. I considered the ten minute walk past the streets of Court, Clay, Madison, Harrison and Federal a warm-up to the grand awakening. The epiphany of Dunbar took some time to develop. At first I was simply jogging on an empty track—which felt more like luck instead of a pattern—but over time I realized I was consistently the only person there. Eventually my jogs turned into gentle meditations on the nature of being. With each lap I would admire the poetry of the P. L. Dunbar scoreboard which reminded me the score was always tied: HOME zero, GUEST zero.

On an oval, the start and finish lines are one-in-the-same. 

Sometimes I would jog in reverse, or, I would sprint across the football field contemplating velocity, or, I would throw my Frisbee to a groundhog, or, I would capture a feeling with my lens, or, I would take off my shoes and lay on the grass and look up at the clouds—and I would thank the Poet Dunbar for bringing a new sacred into my life.

The holy has a way of finding us.

⌘