Summer in Baltimore is an experience. Temperatures rise into the 90s and higher, which is only painful when you take into consideration the 95% humidity. From the volume of people hanging out on the sidewalks and playing softball or tennis in the park, you'd think it was pleasant outside. It is not. Of course, un-air-conditioned rowhomes are even more miserable.
Needless to say (given the title of this post), I continue to walk to and from work. I have to bring a shirt to change into in the morning, and at the end of the day I notice a strange reluctance to leave the office and make the trek home. It's like walking in soup. Immediately upon entering the house, avoiding eye contact with Richard if he's home, I go straight upstairs and strip down and hose off in the shower. Once in the safety of my porcelain haven, I feel like a human being again.
Truth be told, the element of my walk that most affects me these days is not the heat but rather a particular person I pass nearly every morning. He sits on a stoop across the street from a shelter and a block down from the Helping-Up Mission, surrounded by what I presume are all his belongings (a backpack, a couple of plastic bags filled with I don't know what). He is a black man, maybe 45, maybe older (or younger?). He always makes eye contact with me, always returns my "good morning" with a greeting or at the very least a head-nod, even if I interrupt him as he's searching through one of his bags or talking to himself, which he does from time to time. Usually he is just sitting. He has a remarkably kind face, a gentle spirit about him. He never leers, never begs, never looks at me with bitterness or contempt or anything but the simplest acknowledgement that I am a person and he is a person and we exist in each other's universes. I look forward to seeing him, for his smile exudes peace. When his smile is absent and replaced by just a slight nod of the head or wave of the hand, what becomes visible is the pain in his eyes, loss, a knowing of what the day will bring or fail to bring or what days past have brought. Whatever is on his face, every time I see him, I feel as though I witness grace personified, grace wrapped up in old clothes and scruffy face, grace that hasn't bathed in days, grace that is not self-conscious or ashamed or proud. Does he know of this grace that fills him, surrounds him, transcends him? Is it merely a product of my romantic imagination?
My heart longs to reach out to him, to know him, to ask his name, to hear his story. I am tempted to invite Richard on my walk so we can meet him together...The risk of course is dispelling my interpretation of who this man is. Do I really want to know, or is it enough to believe? I feel a sense of obligation to find out.
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2 comments:
You make me want to hear his story, too.
You are obviously so alive and aware on your walk to work, unlike most of us who hide behind the wheels of our cars, unaware and unattuned to all we pass.
I wonder if the man thinks about you as you walk past him every morning. Does he wonder what your life is like or where you hurry off to each day?
One of these days the opportunity may present itself for you to stop walking and engage this man in conversation. I hope if that happens I will be privileged enough to read about it in your blog. What a fascinating story that will be.
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