miracle mile
noun
1. an extended area of fashionable or expensive shops, restaurants, etc., usually along an urban or suburban thoroughfare.
If you’re a Miami native, you’re probably familiar with this name. Most of us Miamians identify this area as the more “posh” side of town. With it’s trendy atmosphere, modern vibe, fast-paced style, it’s the place to “see and be seen”, you might say.
When people imagine Miami, they tend to think “South Beach”, “Coco Walk”, “Coral Gables”, or that far off, exotic paradise called “The Keys”. When I travel, and people ask me where I’m from, I can see the gleam of curiosity as they attack me with a barrage of questions: What’s it like? Have you met anyone famous? What does everyone wear? Do you have a house on the beach? People seem to assume certain things about my address. But the world-famous night clubs, the white, sandy beaches, and glamorous shops are only a small piece in the mosaic that is my hometown.
For me, Miami is where the ancient meets the modern; where north, south, east, and west intersect and reconnect; where the sky is one with the earth just before every sunrise, and kisses the heavens as it illuminates the awakening sky. Most of us here are either from another place, time, and/or country. The youth are comprised mostly of first generation Americans. When I look around my city, I think of what it must’ve been like when the pilgrims landed: strangers in a strange land, but daring to make it their own. In Miami, foreigners find a home. For me, my neighborhood is a vivid reminder of this beautiful phenomenon.
My corner of the city may be a far cry from the glamor shots people see on TV and magazines, but I like to think of this stretch of land as my “miracle mile”. Some characteristics seem almost poetic, while others are possessed with a harsh sadness. One part keeps me hopeful; the other part keeps me humble….
At night, from my bed I can hear cars speeding by my window. Their engines roaring; breaks screaming. In the early morning hours and old man speeds by on his modified bicycle: a motor fashioned to the end propels him through the streets towards his destination. Sometimes, police officers pull over for a while, their lights shining red, white, and blue. Their presence making me fearful, yet secure. I fall asleep to the rhythm of their car lights flashing through my window. On quieter nights, I can hear people ordering food at Checkers a few blocks away, right on US1. This serves as a constant reminder that the city never sleeps….
A block away, there’s a corner store that’s always open. A year or so ago, a man was killed in front of his wife and kids. The neighbors chanted their protests night and day, or silently held signs as people drove by. My brother said it reminded him of all those pictures we see of the civil rights era. Men, women, and children held signs for months. Thing is, fifty years ago, they perhaps may not have had the freedom to do that….
When I buy gas, I pass by the dozens of auto-shops that line the streets. The men yell at each other in a foreign language most white people don’t even bother to learn. Like blacksmiths hammering at an anvil, their laugh, and the sounds of cutting steel and power-tools echo off the walls of their shops. They have a humble but important trade….
Near my house there is also a Hindu temple. Some nights I fall asleep to the chants the wind carries to my bedroom window. I don’t understand what is being sung, but I can feel the beauty in every melody. Sometimes there are drums; sometimes, only voices. On such nights, I lay listening for hours. Always, the morning after, people gather again to sing and share a meal. The culture is so foreign, yet not completely different from my own….
Further down the street, there is a small mosque; right next to it, there is a black Baptist church. On religious days, both groups observe the traditions of their faith. Both places of worship are filled. These groups function independently of each other, but are acutely aware of the others’ existence and faith. They sing in different tongues, rising like a chorus to the sky….
In the distance, there’s a Coast Guard base. The driveway navigates through an open field, leading to a building, but the majority of the property is enclosed by light woods. The jeeps are kept nearby, but in another field. The are lined-up like silent soldiers, guarding the terrain. Sentinels, they stand at attention. Here, and abroad, they guard our freedom….
To me, this miracle mile of mine is a constant reminder of the spectacular nature of life. It calls to the passerby, beseeching them to regard the noteworthy miracles of life that are constantly overlooked. Little miracles may be floating around us, calling to our attention. I try grab them, and place them in my pocket. They follow me as I journey across countless other miracle miles….
Whether I’m in Spain, walking the streets of Madrid, or the beaches of Galicia, or in Hawaii, driving past pineapple fields, swimming on Pipeline beach, gazing at the landscape in the mountains from Pali Lookout, or breathing in the beauty of a sunset on Waikiki Beach, I have a piece of home. The nomad in me yearns to explore and discover, but it cries for home.
Perhaps this is how the Israelites felt as the traversed through barren lands. Perhaps they knew where they were going, but they didn’t know the path they would take to reach their destination. No matter where they went, they knew where they came from, and they had purpose. Nothing stopped them from moving.
So, wherever you go, however far away your journey takes you, never lose purpose. Learn from your “miracle mile”, and take it with you as you discover others. Life’s too short to ignore. My home has taught me to not be afraid to take the chance on noticing the small things. If we ignore them, we ignore the stitches in the fabric of the tapestry of our lives.
This is my miracle mile….
What’s yours?
Bon Voyage!
barefootnomad 