Simplicity

At night, after a day of work, I stand on the corner of 32nd Street and 7th Avenue waiting for the light to change so I can make my way to Penn Station. There is a tall building just to the north and slightly west that is either being constructed or has been gutted. It grabs my attention every night as I pause there on that busy corner. All we see from the street, several blocks away, are the empty, open floors lit by single, bare light bulbs on every level, evenly distributed in clean rows. It is a shell of a building rising up into the night sky. There is something about its minimalist simplicity, its raw openness, its bare bones of hard concrete and no facade that is quite beautiful. I look up at it and don't want it to change. It doesn't need anything more. It doesn't need to be filled or closed up. I've wondered what it is about its presence that draws me in so much. Maybe it is how it embodies openness and space within a defined structure, offering permission to wonder, imagine, create.  In its simplicity there is room to breathe. Maybe it reminds me in its emptiness that there is much to be experienced in not filling every moment. There is much to appreciate in ourselves, just as we are, not needing to be anything more. There is an unshakable beauty when we expose ourselves and know we are also solid, grounded, protected by something. For as long as it remains in this state, I will enjoy how this structure of concrete and light bulbs can evoke this kind of grace at the end of a long day, standing there in a bright night, or rain, or wind, or maybe even snow. But, even once they close it up and fill it in with things and people and dramas of everyday human life, I can still recall the structure and feel the spaciousness, wonder and simplicity that is underneath it all. And when I need to,  I can recall that sense in me, too, that underneath all that goes on in me, is a place that is simple, open, spacious and has room to breathe and wonder.