I run. When I do, I take up the third half of a lane—the left lane. I run straight toward oncoming traffic, but 99% of the time I’m on country roads or in town—a town a 2026 census placed at 784 to 1,257 people—and the care for my safety means drivers move completely out of their lane and into the oncoming one. I never not wave in appreciation, and mouth a silent thank you.
On Tuesday’s run in the town square, something was amiss. The squirrels were squirreling, the magnolia blooming, and the track with the out-of-commission caboose displaying. But the phone booth—had that been there before? The description in white block print showed it was a wind tunnel, a space to call a deceased loved one, to help people feel less alone.
I thought of the concept of it, of one similar I’d been in and used before. Ultimately, I felt neutral to positive about it, thinking it a nice idea—like the freshly planted flowers along its base—and continued my run.
I’d likely have kept that viewpoint had it not been for a post in the local Facebook group. Holy mother effing cow—from the comments, you’d have thought Public Service (the one who sponsored the wind tunnel) had placed a ten-foot sculpture of a pitchfork-holding devil peeing on the Bible and a cross.
“There is only ONE way to talk to the dead and that’s through JESUS!!!” Only, I’m paraphrasing. Through the long-winded rants, I no longer saw this space as good-intentioned—I saw it as a battleground. One where people’s territorial need to pee on things is most important.
And that’s where something in me shifts. Because when something has to be one way—their way—there’s no room left for anything else. No room for nuance. No room for difference. No room for me.
My safety, or care for me as a runner, inside that mentality, starts to feel shaky. I don’t matter. I must do it their way. I must feel how they feel. “JESUS as the only way” doesn’t just sit as belief—it crowds out space.
The care for me in one way is eclipsed in this other.
Running by the wind tunnel this morning, I felt the tension. Knowing the eyes of judgment that exist toward it, and the hands strangling the essence of life from it.
How many times “urgent response needed” has hit me between the eyes. I need to do something. To call the bullies out from behind the pulpit and force-feed slop down their gullets. It’s unjust. It’s not right.
And… I also don’t care. Or maybe more accurately—I choose not to care in that way. I de-escalate the urgency to step in and stand up for what’s right. Because all that is is a pit of snakes that, if I walk near, I’ll get pulled in. I know this. I know at that level of intensity and rage and “I’m right” beliefs, the only answer is I’m wrong.
I do what I do, and write. I outlet the madness to the page and know this is where it’s healthy. This is where it’s safe. This slice of the world is for me to create and dream, and to stay in my lane.
And just because people swerve in my direction and make me feel unsafe, that doesn’t mean I don’t run. It doesn’t mean I go and egg the person’s house. I stay my course, and keep running.
And maybe at some point, I step into that wind tunnel and have a conversation with a loved one—just because it’s there, and just because I can.
Love, Jaclynn
Fantastic point! The comments section will kill all that is good in this world. It is wild to read what people spout off about. Last week the comments in a post about a popular hair care line’s new product were brutal. I thought man – they are even angry about trying to look pretty.
Glad you are here! I love what you create and share! Your points of views are yours and that’s what makes this whole community so fantastic.
Happy Saturday!