By the Crowd of Worshipers

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Walking home along Beacon Street in the late golden afternoon is a profoundly human experience. Through the Common, across Charles Street into the Public Garden, and finally to my tree-lined home stretch.⁣

Hundreds of people pass in and out and around, swimming in the sunlight pooling at our feet and in our eyes. The general nonchalance of the passer-byes heightens the intimacy of the second when your eyes lock with another’s and they say “I see you there, and what are you about?” Life gurgles in giant dogs chasing tiny balls and snippets of conversation about irresponsible coworkers and the best Starbucks drinks.⁣

Every individual and clump of two or three, each in their own world, but inhabiting a space shared by a mind-boggling diversity of origin and lifestyle.⁣

I sometimes almost think that we are truly each in our own worlds, unaware of the human-shaped gods that we filter through every day except for the proper reverence we show. The proper reverence we show in the way we weave instinctively (or deliberately) around and through giving the least possible inconvenience to each other, and paying deference to each small sovereign in our silent, downcast eyes and easy relinquishment of our human dues.⁣

Every day in the city, I walk home through a crowd of worshipers.⁣
They are worshipers, I know.⁣
Which god, I don’t.