Every other day is a hard day.
I can't quite put into words the thoughts I have. It feels like a sort of depression I'm in. People at work keep telling me how chipper I am, and joyful I seem all the time. How I look at the good things. That's is truly all of the Lord shining out through me. The feeling of much of my spirit is losing juice.
Why am I here? I ask again as I stock chips in the snack aisle. I pray, "Lord, I can't be here. Please help me. Send me someone, something, help me, please." I ride my bike down the same roads daily, and I know it's going to be that way for months. I only see the same time of day every day. I don't get to see the sun come up, or the sun go down. I miss seasons of the day.
I feel consumed by my surroundings, even though I try so hard not to be.
I don't feel challenged... let me explain. I feel challenged in the way that I am speaking of, being here. But that challenge makes me want to lay limp like a dead fish. If I do get challenged in any other way, I won't have the life in me to take it on. That's a depressing thought.
All I have to do when I am stocking those shelves is get lost inside my own head. I help customers, and then I stock cereal and my mind reels. Perhaps my mind would have more to write about than this if it had time to reel elsewhere; Somewhere challenging and adventurous.
Today after finishing one customers groceries I was met with a white-haired older woman. She put her basket down on the shelf and stood there as if to observe me and for me to observe here. It was a little strange, but so endearing as she stood there dressed in all white, hands clasped in front of her, and smiling huge.
She walked over to the other side of the counter and watched me.Then she spoke so softly. She had a quiviling voice, very quiet and old. She sounded like she had almost lost her voice completely... except for that one fact that I could faintly hear here. Somehow still, she spoke strongly. Her spirit was strong.
"Are you an artist?"
I looked up delightly suprised, "I am, actually!"
She looked back at me with knowing in her eyes, "I am too. I taught at the art institute for twenty years."
I enjoyed her. I ask what kind of artist she is.
Softly, she responded with such joy and confidence, "I am a writer".
"Me too!" I said this, surprised at myself. If she would have asked me that question first I would have had to think about it. I would have said something like.... I like to make mosaics? So certain I am an artist, yet so unsure of my medium. How silly. But there I was, just as certain as she was. Just as certain as she is. And she was ecstatic that I was a writer as well. She asked what I liked to write. Non-fiction, creative non-fiction, I told here. She did too. Her enjoyment of this conversation grew bubbly. I followed. There was a bond there that is hard to explain.
"We are so blessed," she said, "Never quite. Write every day. Don't ever forget."
She said it over and over again emotionally, as if it were the scene in the end of Titanic where Rose promises she'll "never let go", only less cheesy and freakishly real.
"Don't ever for get. How blessed we are. Write, and write every day."
I looked at her, "It's really good to be reminded of that."
She looked back at me still smiling, with her soft voice, "May God bless you very much."
She walked away with her white hair, dressed in all white, smiling brightly looking back at me over her shoulder, "Don't ever forget". I had to snap back into reality when the next customer walked up.
I have pretty neat interactions with people. Things that I love to write about and talk about. Things that give me hope in the world. Not often have I had an experience with a person that made that moment in time I had with them feel like a bubble outside of worldly reality. There was a spirituality in that which almost freaked me out. I wanted to hug her. I still do. I can't quite explain it. I so wish I could.
Then I went to stock the chip aisle....
Here we go again...
