The Battle

In the corner of the coffee shop, I spot her. A silver haired woman sitting alone at a table for two. A steaming cup of coffee sits beside her–beside her left hand that is hard at work on something that I cannot see. Her focus is unmovable.

Upon my arrival I had taken one of the few available tables. The morning rush. The gentleman next to me warned, that table is rickety, be careful.

I’ll be gentle, I’d told him.

The morning crowd has scattered in different directions now. To work? To school? To the grocery store? To a doctors appointment? Back to home, to clean up the mess from last night?

Now, it is just me and a few others. A table full of silver-haired men and women sit behind me. They have pulled chairs up to a booth to make room for all of them. My music plays loud in my earbuds, oddly, to drown out the noise. I hear words intermittently–Medicare, walker, golf. And laughter. Lots of laughter. I smile and make a mental note, life doesn’t end when the kids move on, when my hair is gray, when I can no longer log endless miles.

There are two women sitting across the room by the window. I watch as one nods, nods, nods and smiles, smiles, smiles. Eyes focused on her friend. Her sister? Connection. Support. Obvious, friendship.

My eyes fall back to the silver haired womAn with the steaming coffee in the corner of the coffee shop. I notice two plastic cups filled with pencils at the edge of her table. Colored pencils? Yes, they are colored pencils. Her eyes are focused on the table, her left hand working hard at what it is she is creating. I watch as she picks up the sky blue pencil and touches it to the paper. I wonder what she is creating. Her eyes, behind her black-rimmed glasses, are focused on the work. The creation of a masterpiece? I watch as her left arm arcs over her page as she strokes her pencil back and forth. I imagine a rainbow of colors etched onto the left side of her left hand–a left handers problem of which I’m familiar.

I watch as she pauses and stares out the window. I follow her gaze and see nothing. Maybe she’s lost in thought. Lost in the snowflakes that have settled on the trees in April. Lost in wonder at the way that spring and winter can exist at the same time. Like me. Wondering, about life. Marveling, at everything.

Last night Chad listened as I searched to find the words the have been bubbling under the surface. At first a slow, pop, pop, pop from the beginnings of heat, but growing into a rolling boil under a lid. The world is full of stories, beauty, lessons, life. I don’t want to rush past, I told him, I want to slow down. I don’t want to miss them.

It is a discipline, I think. Slowing down is as much a discipline as yoga or marathon training. One that some develop, but that remains underdeveloped in me. And yet, I long to learn, to practice, to mess up and try again. To stop rushing, to not be enslaved by a to-do or the chase to get ahead.

I want to be mindful, I told Chad. I want to see and hear. He tells me he doesn’t like that word. Mindful. It’s too trendy he says.

Aware then. I want to be aware.

Yesterday I heard Bob Goff’s words spoken on a podcast, the battles for our hearts are fought on the pages of our calendars. 

There is so much in less. This, I know.

*******
I have moved in the coffee shop. To a smaller table, further back. To make room. The place is bustling now. People are everywhere. Gathering. Laughing. Children climbing down from chairs, parents reaching out for them. Gentlemen holding doors for strangers. Friends embracing as they meet at the entrance. The smell of fresh bread fills the air. I look across the room to the table with the silver-haired woman with the coffee cup that is no longer steaming. Her pencils are still in hand, working, diligently. We’ve been here now, the two of us, through two busy shifts. Her head is down. She is creating. It is beautiful.

Today, I didn’t rush past. Today, I saw her.

There is so much to see.

Today, the battle was won.

Tomorrow, I will try again.