While most
folks I know are just getting settled in for the night, I’m out chasing the
day’s first light. I’ve been photographing the sunrise every morning for the
past 15 years, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: the sun won’t
wait. If I want to catch it, I have to show up.
This morning,
I was back at The Point, walking the fishing pier before dawn. About halfway
down, I noticed a man sitting alone on one of the benches. Just sitting
quietly, staring out over the water. I’m pretty sure he slept there last night
— maybe hoping the breeze off the water would keep him cool.
I don’t mean
to sound paranoid but coming across someone out there that early makes me a
little uneasy. Still, I spoke to him as I passed. He answered softly — just
above a whisper.
Later, on my
way back, I saw only his feet sticking out, his bicycle parked nearby, every
bit of his life strapped to it. No name. No face. Just a quiet presence.
And a quiet
reminder:
The line
between “us” and “them” is thinner than we like to admit.
I’ve been
guilty of judging too quickly — I think most of us have. It’s easier sometimes
to look away, to shrug it off, to convince ourselves that people bring trouble
on themselves. But the truth is, we don’t know what battles someone’s fighting.
We see the
surface.
What we
don’t see is the weight they carry.
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