I’ve had a different commute the last week or so, which has opened my eyes to new things. For instance, there’s the young man who sits in the same subway car every day. He’s always sharply dressed in a suit. I noticed him the first day as we simultaneously exited the subway. Seated, you wouldn’t think anything of him. Once he stands, you realize there is something different. He has a condition of some sort, the type that makes it difficult for him to use one of his legs and one of his arms.
Even so, he’s one of the first people to stand as we near the station. In his suit, he could be mistaken for any other office worker. The car comes to a sliding halt and the heavy metal doors slide open with a bang. He walks through, his gait uneven, his head held high, and power walks through the crowd, leaving the other commuters in his dust. He doesn’t hesitate as he reaches the stairs, taking each step with gusto, as if savoring the chance to move higher and higher.
I’ve watched this man for the last week. Every time I see this scene, I feel moved. It’s beautiful. His fearlessness and resolve, his disregard for what other people would consider a debilitating condition. His refusal to take the elevator, or stand to the back so that others can pass him. I see him and I think to myself, This is someone’s child. Someone loves this man, someone helped him grow up proud and strong. Someone taught him that the world was his for the taking, and now he’s doing precisely that. I wonder if he ever stops to think about fate, about parallel universes. Does he wonder if, somewhere out there, he’s leading a different life?
I know I do. The universe is so vast. And there’s so little that we really understand about it. My own life is less than a blip on the cosmic screen. It makes me wonder about the possibilities, about the realities that may exist out there that we’re not aware of. But that’s thinking too big. I’d go crazy if I spent all of my time thinking on that level. So I think back to that dirty subway car and I wonder to myself, Does anybody really see me? Then I realize, in a moment of quiet clarity, that before anyone can see me, I need to be able to first look at myself and recognize the beauty and purpose therein.
Currently Reading: Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. The book chronicles the year she and her family spent trying to live as locavores. This is the first non-fiction work by Kingsolver that I’ve read and it’s taken me some time to warm up to it. The message is hitting home, however. I visited a grocery store this past weekend for the first time since starting the book and nearly had an existential meltdown when I spotted the mountains of watermelons, canteloupes, and pineapples.