just a few Infinities

A Brief Peek Into My Sidewalk Imagination

This morning, on my way to a test, I missed my bus. Instead, I took to the sidewalk. Where all of my best thinking happens.

On this particular morning, I was thinking about what it means to be a poet. I thought about all the ways we repress expression, and why. I thought if I had caught the bus I would’ve had more time to study for my test. I thought about what it means to grow up. I thought about how when I was a kid I used to imagine the personalities of trees. I thought about all the reasons why children are the best poets.

I thought, as a university student, I really don’t get to see children very often anymore.
And I don’t get very many opportunities to act like one again either.

And then I thought, By golly what in the goodness gracious is that?
(or something to that effect.)

It was a wall of giddy sound and innocence.
Walking towards me on the other side of the street was a group of 50 eight-year-olds.
Giggling and yelling and hopping over sidewalk cracks.
At 9 in the morning.

I took a sip of my coffee, aging myself, and thought…what are the chances?
They were waiting to cross on the opposite side that I was. I was going to have to walk through their excitement.

Bounding across the street, they were shrieking with laughter, they were yelling jokes that were only funny because of their sheer silliness. They were expressing everything that was inside of them at that time, and everyone around them was okay with that.

It was beautiful, it was hilarious. It was contagious.

As I approached this bubbling mob of happy little people, I realized that they were embodying what I had just been thinking about. They were being shamelessly expressive. They were being poets. So I smiled. I smiled and I looked up as we passed each other in a blurry, screechy, colourful mess.

One of them caught my eye, saw my smile presumably, threw her mitted hand into the air, and screamed GOOD MORNING!

I yelled good morning!!! back. And suddenly I had an entire group of children screaming HELLO HI AHHHHHHHH HEY at me and my coffee.

I laughed out loud alone on the sidewalk after they were gone. Just because of the sheer silliness of it all.

Then I started thinking about how I sometimes pass a group of seniors at the next light. And how fantastic the juxtaposition would be if they were there again this morning.

Guess what.
They were.

(At that point, I tried imagining that my professor would forget about our test. It didn’t work quite as well.)

The juxtaposition was fantastic. Both mobs were great in different ways. The seniors gave me quiet smiles and amused nods. The kids yelled hello in a way that probably roused a few sleeper-inners.

Both treated me differently – both treated me better – than a group of people my own age would have.

Later, on campus I walked against the current of a 300+ student class being let out. Not one person acknowledged me.

And most of them wore blank faces and headphones.

The age group with the most potential to understand me, to relate to me, to make a lasting connection with me – walked past without a sideways glance.

The least poetic mob I crossed all day.

The Beautiful Intuition of a Stranger

I love going to the bank.

People who work at the bank have got to be some of the most friendly people I’ve ever spoken with.

I’m a friendly person too, when I’m being myself. And today, I was.

The teller and I were chatting and laughing away as she ran my cheques through the system. (If you treat your tellers like human beings, banking can be this comfortable.)

Suddenly she stopped me, and said, with an accent “You’re a student, aren’t you?”

I said that I was, but didn’t bother to ask how she knew. She had just seen my waning bank account.

Then she surprised me. “You’re studying art, I can tell. Something to do with art, Yes?”

I was thrown. “How do you know that?” I asked without answering.

“I just have this sense about you…Art…It’s you.”

“Wow, well I am studying English literature, actually. That’s amazing.”

“Literature - yes! - I was going to say that.”

“How did you - ?”

“It’s just you. The way you are. The way you speak and the way that you act. I could tell right away.”

She then went on to tell me about how her best friend throughout university had been an English student as well. I reminded her of her. She still receives letters from this friend and when she gets them, she put her hand on her heart, they’re written like novels.The words, the meaning, the thought. It’s beautiful. It matters.

“What you do matters” she said, without knowing how important it was that she was saying that. Without any indication from me that I needed to hear that today.

This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened. It’s not even close to the first time, actually.I’ve been outrageously fortunate thus far to run into just the right person at just the right time, who accidentally said just the right thing. But it still catches me off guard. I still marvel at how in the world they could know to say that - how a stranger could say something so meaningful, without even realizing.

How a stranger could know more about me than most of my friends.

How a stranger can notice something that everyone else ignores.

The soft-voiced stranger added something really meaningful to my day. I hope that maybe, by noticing “the way that I speak, the way that I act, the way that I am” she added something meaningful to her day too. Maybe I reminded her of something, or triggered inspiration. Maybe she’ll finally sit down and read that book she’s had on the table for a month. Maybe she’ll tell this story to her old friend.

I think my favourite part about talking to strangers, is that I get to be a stranger too. I think sometimes when you’re a stranger, you’re more yourself than ever before.

The beautiful intuition of a stranger.