Where are you parked?

It's a question we're asked to consider, in a group I'm involved with. "Where are you parked?" asks what's your status? Are you safe, secure, comfortable? Are you in a good place, off the road, garaged, sheltered?

Do you park beneath the trees, where birds poop on your hood and windshield?

Are you out in the open, so no one can hide near your car?

Have you pulled off the narrow pavement, precariously tipped, wheels just inches from the cliff?

Or are you stuck, mired in mud, wheels spinning and going nowhere?

Is someone else in your space?

Do you idle slowly among the rows, watching for back-up lights? Are you motionless, waiting, blocking all behind you, just to nab the best space? 

 Did you pull up to the red curb, motor running, because you're just going to run in real quick and be right out again?

Does the gravel pop beneath your tires as you pull in, signal your arrival, so the kids and dogs all pile shouting out the door greeting you, "She's home!"

Did you feed the meter?

Is the chit from the last place you parked trapped beneath your wiper, fluttering before your eyes through the glass, but you can't dislodge it?

Some people don't care where they park; they pull in fast off the road, take the first open spot, then walk with purpose to their destination.

Others back skillfully into their spot, facing forward, so they can make a quick getaway when they need to.

At work, I park in a private lot, wave a keycard magic wand to open the gate, but when I leave it's one-way out, don't back up into the spikes, severe damage may result.

On the way home, I pull over on the shoulder, stop and smell the ocean for a little while. The beach drops away from the road, below on the sand, the sound of whizzing traffic quiets. Then when I'm ready, I'm back up on the shoulder, behind the wheel, watching in the mirror for a break in the cars to pull out fast, get up to speed and join them.

Where are you parked?