Half a second.

I see him for half a second. Or maybe a whole second. At most.

Still, that's enough.

Enough for what?

Enough to pick up my pace

Enough to fear
Enough to escape
Enough for the image to sink in

Just enough

Bright afternoon. Walking through small streets in Nørrebro and through the hedge to the city's magical cemetery. A bright walk between tombstones, budding bushes and giant trees in the direction of the metro on the roundabout.

The oasis among the dead is mine now. I breathe with awareness and neutrality, and my heart is especially open here. I know Assistance and the spirit, and I enjoy moving new paths through the cemetery, summer and autumn.

Today I choose a new narrow path. I register the pulling bicycles, the chirping of the tits and see the pink cherry tree a little further ahead. I am here, with my breath calm, focus on practice.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see a violent movement a few meters away from me, to the right. I only see it for half a second: under the nearest large fir tree, a man stands with rapid hand movements around his exposed genitals, facing the path and a wild look in his eyes.

Ignore! Escape! – it shouts within me.

My consciousness takes half a second to register it, then I look down at the ground. My breath holds itself back for a moment, and I know I have to leave.

Focus back on my breathing. I walk quickly past the man, my gaze fixed on the flowering tree, while I breathe deeply into the ground. In the direction of the slightly wider path. I am safe.

Half a second. That's enough.

But it's enough. Enough to feel the danger, the disgust, the rage, the sadness over my vulnerability. Enough for the anger over millennia of collective trauma after the male oppression of the feminine to well up in me. The male aggressive and (power)-hungry force towards the feminine.

Enough for me to lose the practice moment and the contact inward. Half a second is enough.
A few paths from there I slow down and find my way back to the heaviness in my body and feel the ground beneath my feet.

The image of the man remains on my inner wall and the emotions run. I look at it. Neutrally. Registering. Making aware. First the desire for the counterattack. Then the condemnation of his sexuality in the public space, the uncivilized, the threatening, which has now invaded my space.

Then I try to let it go.

I walk on between the graves. Some mossy, others with clear writing. My condolences to those who have lost. The one who lost their child far too early. The one who lost their loved one. There is a lot of heart in the cemetery. Many have cried here, I can almost cry at some of the stones, even though I don't know the names.

But how far does my empathy extend here in the cemetery? It embraces the collective feeling that lies in grief. But can it also accommodate the perhaps lonely, vulnerable male who a little while ago exhibited himself under a tree with naked genitals?
Perhaps he holds a story full of frost and dark windows.

Can my compassion extend to include the abuser, the executioner, the tyrant?

Can yours?