It's a cozy little park named Homestead, and somehow in all my six years of living here I did not give it a second glance. I've always busied myself with trips to the store, trips to the gym. But never to this small corner of nature. I'm writing this as I sit on a bench shadowed by pines and madronas, enveloped in its own green security. I sip my mango tea, thinking, wishing, that more people would take the time to appreciate the overlooked things around them. The truth is, we get so caught up with this perpetual cycle of manufactured productivity, that we forget to notice another cycle we are apart of -- life. And I suppose this is not an earth-shattering revelation by any means, but more of a way to convince myself that I still see.
It's a Wednesday, middle of the week, and the park is unsurprisingly empty. There's not a soul here save for me and my mango tea, losing its coldness in my hand.
The juxtaposition of two living entities is fascinating. On the other side of my tree enclosure, the 'normal' world spins on, car after car after car until the distinct sound of tires on cement becomes nothing more than a surreal hum. The stores and the gym are still there, but at this moment they don't exist. All I know is that the world on the other side of the madronas is foreign to me at this very moment, unimaginable, at least until my watch strikes two o'clock and I have to re-emerge -- fresh, clueless, back into manufactured productivity.
Some famous writer once said that to write effectively, one must concretely describe one's surroundings, 'teleporting' the reader. That is true enough, unarguably, but what I hope to do is not teleport, but reawaken. I hope to enlighten not of surroundings but of perceptions, feelings. 'Surroundings' are simply nouns, concrete, referential diction. They exist, they appear, they stare back at us with the same unseeing gaze we give them. We can touch, but can we feel? How we perceive these nouns is what matters -- 'beauty' would not exist if it were only a simple noun.
And so as I drink in my own perceptions of nouns with long sips of tea, with a spot of sunlight warm on my back and the hum of the world resonating in my ears, I know that nothing matters except our own relative cocoons made of pines and madronas.
As I left my bench, a man smiled at me, quietly raising his hand in a shy hello. He held a red cup in the other hand, fingers wrapped protectively around it. I was about to go on my way, camera around my neck, when he asked shyly, "Would you have 50 cents?"
I answered automatically, trained in the ways of homeless people, "No... sorry." I offered an apologetic smile and went back to taking pictures, forcing the homeless man out of my mind.
From the corner of my eye I noticed that, of all the benches in the park, he had chosen mine to lie on, his battered cap covering his face and his hands peacefully folded, as if in prayer. The irony struck me, hard. And on a whim I reached into my purse and pulled out my last $5, examining it closely. It was the new kind.
What would I buy with this? A cup of Starbucks, most likely. What would he buy with it? My mind said drugs and alcohol, but my heart said food. Somehow I couldn't see the man on the bench, with his folded hands and red cup, do what the 'adults' in my life told me homeless people do. I couldn't see it in his sorrowful eyes or in the way his cup appeared light, empty.
And on a whim I walked quietly up to this man, careful of not disturbing his sleep. I wanted to put the $5 in his hand and walk away softly, but he sat up as I approached and I handed him the bill, almost hastily. He regarded me with disbelief, his brown, knowing eyes almost crying with surprise.
"Thank you... I'm really hungry... God bless you, God bless you..." He kept stammering. All I could reply with, caught off guard by my own spontaneity, was:
"I don't believe in God."
His awkwardness vanished, and he sat up fully, eyes on me, intent, thinking.
"Why is that?"
"Because if God existed, you would not be lying on this bench with that red cup in your hands." I said it without thinking; the words just came.
"If God didn't exist, you'd be on this bench too."
"But why you instead of me?"
"But why any of us?"
He smiled.
I didn't want to; I didn't want to believe him. But I did, because he did. I was here because he was here. We were both here. Here, here, here.
I nodded and he knew.
The juxtaposition of living entities is a funny thing. A secluded park within the hum of the city, a homeless man believing in God and an affluent suburban girl refusing belief.
It's all here. Here, here, here.
