A Long, Slow Breath in Old Southwest: Day Twenty-Eight

(Sometimes it’s tough to feel at home in your own city.  Which is why I’ve given myself a challenge:  each day, for forty days, I’m going to find *one* thing I love about this place.  And then I’m going to tell you about it.  If you want to follow my journey, start here.  Today is Day Twenty-Eight.)

I have a mind that moves fast but a heart that moves slow.

Breathes.

Considers.

Waits.

Meanwhile the world moves past me — a blur of color and light flooding forward while I stand still, wide-eyed.

Maybe this is why I love old things.  Old places.

*

I drove over the railroad tracks into Old Southwest the other day.  My heart wanted to take a breath.  To stand still among old places that had been standing for a long time.

This is one of Roanoke’s oldest neighborhoods — foursquares and Victorians, Palladian windows and peeling paint, all in various stages of disrepair and redemption.

Which speaks to me, with my heart full of both.

If you, too, are looking to take a breath, I hope these images provide a welcome resting place: