Thursday, January 26, 2006

asleep. There is a woman who rides the bus some mornings with me who holds her head in her hands at the bus stop like she is suffering from the worst kind of headache. But if you ask if she is okay, she smiles brightly through her fingers and nods just as long as it takes you to look away. Something tells me I shouldn't look away. But I do. There is a person who sleeps under a pile of plastic bags in a parking lot next to my office building. I don't know if this person is a man or a woman because there is always a hood and a scarf and a body curled inward to brace against the wind. And if I go out again to get coffee, they're always gone. Until the next morning. I am used to walking by this, and that seems wrong. But I do. There is a friend of mine who needs help desperately but fears that in asking, he will appear weak or self-serving. He is not to be convinced otherwise, though you may cajole and plead and offer and suggest. He has forgotten what it means to the giver to give and he does not know how to receive. And the chances of him pausing to learn either lesson may not be as great as the chances that it will be too late if he ever does. I know I should never stop trying to help, no matter how he resists. But I do. There is a problem I have that I don't know how to solve and I have turned my back on it for so long that avoiding that pain has stolen a chunk of my heart. I feel this loss keenly, but I know I could heal if I would just do something about it. One thing. The first thing. And then take it from there. I know this is not something to ignore, because the stakes are too high. But I do. A nurse once told me that a sleeping person seems heavier to carry because there is no muscle tension bearing any of the weight they possess. If they squirm and wake in your arms, you will find the burden easier to bear, regardless of how much more awkward the experience may be as a result. It seemed like such an odd notion at the time, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I have let the stillness and heaviness of inaction weigh me down too often. I want to stretch and strain and rail against all of this, even knowing the awkwardness it might create, because I know that so much of what bears down on me will lift if I just agree to fight. I hate living with inertia because I am afraid of taking a risk. I do, though. But maybe it's time that this sleeping body woke up. 1:20:29 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:32:02 PM.