Fighter jets roared by above our yoga studio. Breaks the ambience, right?
One woman put it in context by murmuring,
“The sound of freedom.”
And I thought Dear God, where do you even start?
I spent the rest of the class absentmindedly bent into various shapes and thinking non-serene thoughts.
If weapons were the sound of freedom, there’d be no such thing as dictators.
The sound of freedom is the woman yelling about underpaid janitors at Speakers’ Corner.
The sound of freedom is the boy pushing his little sister in her stroller, walking through the quiet park filled with bird song, and no parents shouting at him to come home because it’s not safe.
The sound of freedom is nobody wondering where their next meal is coming from.
Is there any hope we can hold on to freedom, when so many don’t even know what it is they want to hold?