She is slender and very young. Just old enough to be allowed into this little eclectic Portland bar. Perched on bar stool, wrapped in a pretty summer dress, legs crossed and shoulders hunched forward over the bar; her body language declares "Do not disturb".
I had to lean across her to order but I flashed her a quick "sorry " smile as I did. Looking up and seeing a female face she returns a tight one, curling herself tighter around the little hand bound journal in front of her.
My inadvertently rude glance at her elegant cursive catches a few words "I'm struggling, I can't explain what I feel..." and I am sympathetic as jerk my eyes away. The rush of fellowship is familiar. I was this girl. Granted on the the other side of the country but I was her.
I have a giant bin full of journals from this time in my life. It's so heavy I can't pick it up. I would write and write and draw and draw. I still do, of course, I am writer and an artist. But it was constant then, literally, every moment, my fingers struggled to get my words out.
I look around at the world, at all these people with so many different temperatures in temper and conflicting points of view -so many hearts convinced it walks alone. I wish I would pull over and talk to that old man on the bus stop I see each morning. I am grateful I reached out to that old lady in the store who needed someone to see her and listened to her stories about beloved cats and grand-babies. I regret I didn't leave a little bigger tip to that waitress; I wanted the check and found her by the kitchen door and heard her whisper, "I am invisible." before I startled her with my approach.
I breathe my wish to this girl, that she sees forward to all her possibilities. My eyes find the bartender, my voice startles my ears back into hearing; I order my drink.
I had to lean across her to order but I flashed her a quick "sorry " smile as I did. Looking up and seeing a female face she returns a tight one, curling herself tighter around the little hand bound journal in front of her.
My inadvertently rude glance at her elegant cursive catches a few words "I'm struggling, I can't explain what I feel..." and I am sympathetic as jerk my eyes away. The rush of fellowship is familiar. I was this girl. Granted on the the other side of the country but I was her.
I have a giant bin full of journals from this time in my life. It's so heavy I can't pick it up. I would write and write and draw and draw. I still do, of course, I am writer and an artist. But it was constant then, literally, every moment, my fingers struggled to get my words out.
I look around at the world, at all these people with so many different temperatures in temper and conflicting points of view -so many hearts convinced it walks alone. I wish I would pull over and talk to that old man on the bus stop I see each morning. I am grateful I reached out to that old lady in the store who needed someone to see her and listened to her stories about beloved cats and grand-babies. I regret I didn't leave a little bigger tip to that waitress; I wanted the check and found her by the kitchen door and heard her whisper, "I am invisible." before I startled her with my approach.
I breathe my wish to this girl, that she sees forward to all her possibilities. My eyes find the bartender, my voice startles my ears back into hearing; I order my drink.
