BLENDED COLORS

A seven-year-old African American boy was sitting across from his white mom, just a few feet away from me, in a coffee shop. They were engaged in serious conversation. She was listening intently, completely present with him, as his hands animated his words. They faced each other directly, their eyes in constant contact.

At first, I simply appreciated seeing the blended color family being with each other. Then my attention shifted to how their eyes met…how the mother was so completely engaged with her son and his animated way of telling her a story. She was genuinely with him completely, her body posture suggesting she wanted to be exactly where she was.

I saw no age difference. I imagined what he or any child must feel like when an adult person, parent or not, is honestly present, and wants to be. She was not only listening, she was hearing him with her eyes as well. She cared about what he was saying. No hurry. No rushing. No busyness....just her presence in his world...and his presence in her world.

She even leaned forward a bit to be close to him. Their eyes never wandered from each other. I was reminded of how it feels to have someone slow down enough to just be there. The simple and sacred act of being together,

THE JOY OF CRYING

A mom was on her knees on the sidewalk, leaning into a baby stroller in front of me, her face nestled next to her little boy’s face as he cried. She held him close, being with him as he cried. 

 "I just want to cry," he said quietly.  In the warm sun, on this quiet residential street, she simply held her cheek next to his, repeating, "You just want to cry, of course." They seemed to have no where to go, no hurry. As I walked slowly past them, she acknowledged my presence with her eyes, and remained completely present with her boy.  

Together, they wrapped their arms around each other as he cried quietly, then silently, then not at all. She was his witness, his support, his permission to express himself in his way in that moment. 

For a moment, I longed to have easy access to tears freely, without self judgment, guilt or believing I needed to have a reason. I knew that crying was a natural expression and did not need to be about sadness ....or even about anything at all. “What would it be like,” I wondered, “if all women, men, girls and boys, and me, could cry spontaneously when it is there to do, would there be fewer words spoken?"  I smiled.........a tear..

ISN'T EVERYTHING FICTION?

Some years ago while sitting in a coffee shop in Taos, New Mexico, writing a book I did not know would be published, a man and his wife walked by my table. I recognized him as a well-known famous writer of books and screen plays, yet I was so completely absorbed in my laptop screen, lost in a story, that I did not completely take in his celebrity.

If I had, I might have been intimidated or a bit shy. "Are you writing fiction or non-fiction?” this celebrity person asked. Without thinking, I replied, "Isn't everything fiction?” Surprised by my answer, he turned to his wife and I heard him say, "God, he's right. He’s right." I went back to typing the flow of words emerging from somewhere within me. For a moment, I was impressed by myself for coming up with that instinctive response.

Ten years later, today, I am sitting in a coffee shop in Portland, Oregon, writing what seems to be transitioning into a book. A man with a beard, and appearing to be a street person, or at least fitting my stereotype of a street person, sat down on the stool beside me. The smell of a cigarette smoker filled the space around me. “Hi,” he said, looking in my direction. I noticed my quiet judgment of him, and at first, felt disturbed.

He sensed my thought. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disturb you," he said. “Go on and do your work.” Hearing him, I paused and stopped typing. I turned to face him directly. “You know, people are more important than machines. I’m sorry. I’m glad you are here and we can talk together.” He smiled, revealing some missing teeth. “Today is my birthday,” he replied. “I’m 50 today, and Starbucks has given me a free coffee drink, pastry and anything I want today. Are you a writer?" he asked. "Yes, sometimes I write."

"Are you writing fiction or non-fiction?" he asked, as though he knew the history of that question. "Isn't everything fiction?" I replied. We stared at each other. His facial expression gradually transformed into a knowing smile, as though he knew the truth of those words. I no longer felt a distance between us. He knew. I knew. “Thank you,” he said, then stood up, excused himself and went outside for a smoke.