I am running in my ancestral homeland of poland, north of my family’s hometown krakow: warsawa. I am plugged into my mp3 player and the sights and smells of modern warsaw are passing me at lifespeed and as fast as my legs can move me. I am in typical runner’s bliss when avril lavign’s “innocence” begins and I turn off from the sterile concrete and glass of the modern and into the narrow cobblestone of everything in the before-time. This is warsaw old-town, and I can’t see things but I feel them–the people and feelings that came before, that existed in some moment past. It’s painful and cool and celebrating and anxious and always fleeting but always present so I know there are many unspoken moments of history here. As I maneuver the reality of the uneven running surface and the shouting feelings of lives past, I am being watched or checked out or scowled at or startled by the crowds of tourists. This is my kaleidiscope of life as I can place it into words and as avril’s voice crescendos for some reason, my body lightens and my feet blur and with two single empowered thrusts my legs lift me off the ground and into the air–into heaven and the crystal clear blue nothing and the puffy white perfect clouds shaped like my childhood dreams.