I sit on the El with my backpack between my feet, leaving the seat next to me empty. I leave my ipod at a moderately low volume in order to be able to hear the automated voice announcing the stops. A woman sits down beside me, so close that our shoulders brush. I continue to stare out the window with my headphones in my ears. She pulls out a book. The walls are up. I look out the window at the platform and see countless businessmen and women on their blackberries, with bluetooth devices in their ears or headphones connected to their ipods. Walls. Everywhere. Those without a phone to their ear or an earbud in hold books. There are millions of us in the city. Some are lonely, some are socialites. Some of us just can't bear to be exposed as disconnected, whether our connection is to a friend on the other line, the author of our book, or the voice singing sweetly in our ears. What would happen if we actually had to face the people rubbing shoulders with us? The woman sitting close beside me, the person jostling against me as we lurch around a corner?
I wonder what life would look like if we weren't surrounded by our walls of ipods, books, newspapers, and blackberries. I wonder what life would look like if looked the stranger across from me in the eye instead of staring at a blank cell phone screen.
He doesn't have a wall as he steps on to the El. He holds a can of diet Sierra Mist in his hand. I glance up at him as he steps through the door and sits across from me in a single seat. He places his backpack between his feet. This young man makes quick work of the can of soda and sits it on the ledge beside him. I silently disapprove. Perhaps he'll throw it away when he leaves. I continue to watch him (its hard not to as he is sitting three feet across from me, and its him or the rear end of the man standing close beside me). He looks up to catch me looking at him. We hold eye contact for a split second and I look away. He pulls out a phone and connects some headphones. I watch as he drops the phone down the front of his shirt and then pulls it down and into his jacket pocket. He then pulls out a journal. I am officially intrigued. I too like to write while I'm on the El. I silently approve. He soon gives me no reason to be ashamed of my people watching. The young man begins to crane his neck to see around the people standing around him. Focusing more towards the ground, he seems to be searching for something, looking left and right with such intensity I have to restrain following his eyes where they roam. He does this for a few moments and then quickly jots something down in his planner. I can't imagine what he could possibly be writing and searching for in the crowded El. I continue to stare, probably in a rather rude manner, as this man searches and scribbles. I wish I could ask him what it is he is writing. If he himself is a writer. He looks down at the ground between our feet. I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. I hate for people to look at my feet. I uncross and cross my legs while watching him jot something down in his planner, silently hoping he is not making note of my feet... I prepare for my stop and stand, taking one last long look at this curious gentleman and his inquisitive gaze.
I ended up in Lavazza, sipping an Italian-esque chocolate milkshake, talking to Ruth as she bustles around behind the counter preparing an interesting concoction of gelato, chocolate, whipped cream, and peaches.
I leave Lavazza as the sun sets in the west, leaving the city in a cool, dusky shadow. My headphones are back in and Jimmy Eat World blares in my ears. Its a bit chilly, but not unpleasant. I take some obscure side street that I had never walked down before and enjoyed the trees with the street lights shining in their leaves, giving them a pretty yellow glow. Instead of my usually brisk pace, I slow to a stroll and, for once, enjoy being alone. I pass an old Scottish church that has scaffolding built up all around it and notice that behind all of the platforms built up around it there is a rather quaint old building. The scaffolding intersects with the branches of a tree. It looks like some elaborate, out-of-control tree house. I smile at the thought. I walk past Washington Square Park and smile at a man walking his dog. He smiles back. It is pleasant to come across a person who isn't disturbed by the thought of making eye contact with a stranger.
I think as I walk...
I hate the idea of someone making guesswork of the matters of my heart. I don't like to be looked in the eye and told how fucked up I am. So, please don't.
But I know I have to hear it.
I lay in bed that night and my mind races, as usual. I can't stop thinking of Andrew. And when I face the facts and know that it is only going to get worse, I toss and turn. How on earth do I get to the point where I am ever going to be okay? Its more than I don't want to lose him. Its more than me losing the security that he gave me. Its more than me fearing for my future. Its more than I have an issue with surrender, with faith, with loving, with having joy. Its an insurmountable barrier of all things I need to 'fix' in my life, in my heart. I feel so far from okay.
This is the part of me speaking that is dreadfully far from a 'spiritual' perspective. I know I need to learn to give myself over to the healing hands of my Father. I need to submit my broken heart to Him and let Him do a redeeming work. It will take time, and at this moment I still feel fairly shattered.
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