Wednesday, March 16, 2016


There is, perhaps, a bit too much going on in my life right now and I realize that I'm holding it all in and not doing anything useful or constructive with it in a way that allows me to express who I am.

That can't work, it won't work long before I explode and am torn apart both mentally and physically by my absence to myself, to my life, to my experience. It's the experience that make me real and help me understand it all, sometimes much later than now, but they help.

Yesterday I went to a meeting in Manhattan. On the street just outside of grand central station, on a crosswalk that just turned to walk, I walked forward towards Lexington and towards the meeting. I passed a old African woman, sporting a beautiful green wrap in her hair and across her shoulders. I did not know that behind me was an old African woman. Upon passing the woman behind me called out, "Lady, lady?" and got the attention of the woman trying to cross the street.

There was a moment when I thought they were friends, but then it became obvious that they were not. The woman who called out started to speak in a language I did not recognize, but clearly one that was correct. She must have recognized the message that I failed to see written in the green and yellow lines of the wrap in the old woman's hair. The old woman responded in kind to the language and the women stood on the corner, talking like friends, like sisters long after I lost site of them on my trek forwards.

I took the train home even though it meant braving the crush of people at rush out and walked from the train stop to my house. As I turned the corner on 1st avenue to walk towards where I lived I saw a young black boy on a red pogo stick. His hair was cropped close and he was wearing overalls which I thought was endearing and bouncing up and down with such unchecked glee that it warmed my heart. I smiled at him as I walked and he tigger bounced up and down in front of the window of a barber shop. As I passed I listened as the crowd of men inside all shouted and encouraged him to jump higher and he squealed and bounced full of joy.

I live in a city of a million strangers that recognize each other through their dress. I live in a city of a million strangers who are a village raising a single child on a pogo stick.

Alone, at home, I ate dinner and wondered about how I am living in this city, with strangers who can be not strangers in a single second.