Hidden stairs
Stairways scatter my neighborhood. Shortcuts from one street to another on which no car or bike may go.
I spent my first morning here in search of comfort by way of croissant. The path to the bakery led down a quiet road that seemingly dead-ended. But the map said it continued, so…
A wooden rail poked out from the bushes at the end of the street. A handful of moss-covered planks descended the slope.
Everything felt hushed as I stepped carefully onto splintered wood. Spruce trees lined the path and framed the mountains ahead.
Like a secret. Steps leading nowhere except where I want to be.
Sometimes it feels as if everyone around me has a leg up. Like we were once at the same level and now I raise my eyes to see them far away, in the distance.
Like I’ve lost the path that led to the stairs and instead, my road simply ends.
Some of the stairways in my neighborhood no longer exist. There used to be one that connected the elementary school to a street not far from mine. Those stairs would have allowed me to walk to my favorite bar through the neighborhood instead of along the dusty, car-filled street.
It was dangerous, I was told. People used to hang out there, too close to the children, a neighbor said.
The path closed before I could use it. People who ascended can no longer show us the way.
Sometimes it feels as if everyone has figured out what I haven’t. How to cultivate a brand, an identity, fit for the public.
They’re up there, in the distance. And I’m still here, searching for hidden stairs.
Sometimes I look at writers whose faces are disseminated far and wide, through their own and others’ doing, and I cringe at the thought of being so seen.
Here on the stairs, there is no one. The birds chirp and the branches sway.
I like being here, between the ledges. En route to somewhere, in my own time.
Sometimes it feels as if everyone has access to staircases I haven’t found yet. Ones that catapult them to success beyond my reach.
What if that’s not how it happens. What if, like an Escher rendering, our perception is flawed.
What if you’re looking for my hidden staircase at the same time I’m seeking yours. If finding the stairs is a process we repeat again and again.
Today I walked up the closest staircase just as I have before. Each time feels different. Each time it leads me where I need to go.
Relatedly…
Every street in Anchorage
Until earlier this week, it felt like spring was never going to hit. It’s one thing to recognize logically that of course, living this far north comes with a different seasonal schedule than most of the country. That Anchorage spring does not look like New York spring, or Vermont spring, or any other spring I’ve experienced.
I've always connected with the symbolism of doorways, thresholds, and liminal spaces in life. I've never considered stairs in this context. Thanks for the new perspective!
I recently heard a story about a boy who used to scale up two flights of staircases, jumping across the crevasse between risers, just to spend time with his lover in the girl's section of a university hostel. That story, along with your piece, makes me think about the weird ways we can circumnavigate the world, even if it's by bypassing the staircases in the first place. Sometimes it's about finding stairs, other times about jumping up when there aren't any to find.