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In less than five hours my alarm will go off. It has been like this the last two weeks. I get up early (relatively, I mean, it's not 6am anymore) every day, spend most of the day working on the house and "the room" with breaks in between, rather like a day's version of the Japanese school year, and head to bed late only to be unable to quiet my mind enough to sleep. Even meditation tonight has not worked, although my body started to respond, my mind certainly hasn't, and I ended up thinking of a very small moment in my life that I'm not sure I ever told anyone about.
When I lived with Ana's father--oh, let's say I was about 19--there were several months in which most of my time was alone in our house because he was in Nevada helping his mother start a doomed business (I'm going to sing the DOOM song!). As happens once in a while, especially in places like the U-District, someone came knocking at the door in order to sell something. This time it wasn't a youth looking to sell magazines for "points" to an important, life-altering trip (these are the most frequent door-to-door people I saw while living in Seattle proper, the second most common being eco-orgs looking for paid memberships). No, standing there was a man of some tribe of the First Nations, overheated from walking on an unusually hot summer afternoon.
I do not recall his features. He was not especially handsome or particularly ugly, just a pleasant, exhausted man with long, brown hair and a desperate look on his face. My memory is not good on this point, but I believe he was in his late 20's or early 30's. As it turned out he was selling poetry, and while I explained I made and had little money, I could not turn him away. As I sometimes do when someone comes to the door exhausted, I offer them the chance to come in and enjoy a seat and glass of water cool beverage I have on hand. I believe I actually had lemonade or iced tea to offer that day, and he accepted.
It probably worries some of you to know that I do this. I don't do it often, and I always listen to my intuition on the matter--there have been times when I offered a drink without allowing the person inside--but on the few occasions I have done this, it has offered me unique opportunities to get a glimpse into the lives of other people. Especially people willing to walk up and down one neighborhood after another asking for money knowing that the majority of the time they will either meet with rejection or an empty house.
This, I believe, was my most notable experience in spending a few moments with a stranger.
I remember the sun glaring through the windows, so I'd shut the lace curtains, but left the door open with the screen closed. He insisted on sitting on the floor and we talked a while, although I could not tell you what at all he said, although the subject was most likely his hardships of the day or recently in his life. I do remember his eyes being as deep and dark a brown as his hair, and they were large, too. At some point during our conversation, I gave him $10 for two of his poems--poets have to look out for each other--and for a moment water stood in his eyes, but they never managed to fall to his cheeks.
And as he pocketed the money, he asked if he could hug me. I said yes.
He sat up on his knees (I was seated on the couch), and we held each other for at least five minutes--a firm, genuine embrace with neither of us feeling uncomfortable or squirming in the other's arms. I felt as if he might cry, but he never did. And all the while, thinking how odd the situation was, I also felt my heart leaping at the beauty of the moment and let us have this moment of humanity without shame, fear, or regret. Never once did he make a sexual advance, although I think he might have wanted to. I think I might have let him. When we parted from each other he thanked me quietly, gazing into my eyes, and I took his hand and thanked him as well. He drank down the last of his lemonade, gathered up his other sheaves of paper and headed back out into the heat.
After he left, I read the poetry--it was horrible--mediocre content, sappy imagery, misspellings all over the page. It didn't matter. I have that moment in time to keep with me as long as I walk the Earth. It was a precious gift, far more valuable to me than the $10 I gave him for two sheets of paper. I don't remember his name, his face, or his tribe, but I remember his heartbeat.
And now I'm going to write a list of things that need to get done tomorrow so I can quiet my mind--I hope--and try to convince myself that sleep is a good thing, even if my mattress is evil, my mind is swirling with worries and songs from "Once More with Feeling," and my heart filled with excitement for Saturday.
Bless each of you for the beauty and love you bring to the world. I am one tired, gullible, trusting sap who's lucky enough to find treasures she didn't know she needed.
P.S.
I finished painting "the room" tonight including its requisite "magic trees" trimmed with gold. A pictorial evolution to follow after Saturday.
When I lived with Ana's father--oh, let's say I was about 19--there were several months in which most of my time was alone in our house because he was in Nevada helping his mother start a doomed business (I'm going to sing the DOOM song!). As happens once in a while, especially in places like the U-District, someone came knocking at the door in order to sell something. This time it wasn't a youth looking to sell magazines for "points" to an important, life-altering trip (these are the most frequent door-to-door people I saw while living in Seattle proper, the second most common being eco-orgs looking for paid memberships). No, standing there was a man of some tribe of the First Nations, overheated from walking on an unusually hot summer afternoon.
I do not recall his features. He was not especially handsome or particularly ugly, just a pleasant, exhausted man with long, brown hair and a desperate look on his face. My memory is not good on this point, but I believe he was in his late 20's or early 30's. As it turned out he was selling poetry, and while I explained I made and had little money, I could not turn him away. As I sometimes do when someone comes to the door exhausted, I offer them the chance to come in and enjoy a seat and glass of water cool beverage I have on hand. I believe I actually had lemonade or iced tea to offer that day, and he accepted.
It probably worries some of you to know that I do this. I don't do it often, and I always listen to my intuition on the matter--there have been times when I offered a drink without allowing the person inside--but on the few occasions I have done this, it has offered me unique opportunities to get a glimpse into the lives of other people. Especially people willing to walk up and down one neighborhood after another asking for money knowing that the majority of the time they will either meet with rejection or an empty house.
This, I believe, was my most notable experience in spending a few moments with a stranger.
I remember the sun glaring through the windows, so I'd shut the lace curtains, but left the door open with the screen closed. He insisted on sitting on the floor and we talked a while, although I could not tell you what at all he said, although the subject was most likely his hardships of the day or recently in his life. I do remember his eyes being as deep and dark a brown as his hair, and they were large, too. At some point during our conversation, I gave him $10 for two of his poems--poets have to look out for each other--and for a moment water stood in his eyes, but they never managed to fall to his cheeks.
And as he pocketed the money, he asked if he could hug me. I said yes.
He sat up on his knees (I was seated on the couch), and we held each other for at least five minutes--a firm, genuine embrace with neither of us feeling uncomfortable or squirming in the other's arms. I felt as if he might cry, but he never did. And all the while, thinking how odd the situation was, I also felt my heart leaping at the beauty of the moment and let us have this moment of humanity without shame, fear, or regret. Never once did he make a sexual advance, although I think he might have wanted to. I think I might have let him. When we parted from each other he thanked me quietly, gazing into my eyes, and I took his hand and thanked him as well. He drank down the last of his lemonade, gathered up his other sheaves of paper and headed back out into the heat.
After he left, I read the poetry--it was horrible--mediocre content, sappy imagery, misspellings all over the page. It didn't matter. I have that moment in time to keep with me as long as I walk the Earth. It was a precious gift, far more valuable to me than the $10 I gave him for two sheets of paper. I don't remember his name, his face, or his tribe, but I remember his heartbeat.
And now I'm going to write a list of things that need to get done tomorrow so I can quiet my mind--I hope--and try to convince myself that sleep is a good thing, even if my mattress is evil, my mind is swirling with worries and songs from "Once More with Feeling," and my heart filled with excitement for Saturday.
Bless each of you for the beauty and love you bring to the world. I am one tired, gullible, trusting sap who's lucky enough to find treasures she didn't know she needed.
P.S.
I finished painting "the room" tonight including its requisite "magic trees" trimmed with gold. A pictorial evolution to follow after Saturday.
