A Quiet Reminder, Clipped to a Wire Fence by the Railroad Tracks: Day Fifteen

This post is part of the Secret Messages Project.  Every day for thirty days, I’ll leave my words in places where they might be found — or might never be found at all.  I hope you’ll join me. 


There’s a little walking trail downtown, one that runs a parallel to the train tracks where they cut the city in two.

Earlier this week, in the icy drizzle, I walked there, past a few men in suits hurrying to work.  Past the homeless man on the bench with his rolling suitcase.

Everybody here has impossible things to do.

I walked up to the fence, fingering a stack of index cards in my pocket, and I pressed my face against the wires, waiting to see a train come through.  But the air was silent — no rumbling wheels, no long slow whistle.

Some days we all need a reminder that momentum is possible, that change really does happen, that someone out there, somewhere, is moving forward, doing something wild and beautiful and good.

So I clipped the cards to the fence and kept walking:



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