The Sky, the Grass, the Sun, and the Apple
The Sky, the Grass, the Sun, and the Apple
I wrote the piece below on the Friday after Thanksgiving 2015. At the time, I was working for this big company in Chicago, saving up all my nickels and dimes while trying to take care of some minor but nagging health issues. But the plan, as you’ll see in the story, which is 100% true, was already to get back to Asia. I was alone on our floor at the office on that Friday, and there wasn’t much work to do. So I seized the day and spit out the story that had been burning a hole in my head all week. I’ve written a lot of things that I don’t dare look back at. This is one that I’m glad exists. I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving.
The Sky, the Grass, the Sun, and the Apple
Last Saturday, I went to the library to get some work done. I'd interviewed for a teaching position at a kindergarten in Japan about a week earlier. A few days later they sent me a promising email and asked me to submit a teaching demo video. So, on Friday night, on my way back to the place where I'm staying, I went to City Target and bought a thick pad of thick paper and some markers.
I brought them to the library with me on Saturday and drew up several flash cards. One of them had an illustration of a sky and the word Blue. Another had an illustration of grass and the word Green. The one with the sun said Yellow and the one with the apple said Red. After a brief review of these words and colors, my imaginary Japanese kindergarteners and I would be ready to sing our song.
But before any of that, we would first need to review the classroom rules. So I took four pieces of paper and wrote one rule on each of them: Look and listen, Sit properly, Speak English, and Be nice.
As I was gathering up the cards and getting ready to head back out into the snow, a woman sat down next to me. She smelled strongly of cigarettes and hard times, and even though I didn't look up at her, I could feel her looking at my cards, and I sensed that I'd crossed paths with her before.
When I finally looked up, I saw that I was right. I'd seen her at least once before. Most notably, once when it was night and she was pacing slowly back and forth under the bright lights beneath an overpass. I was out walking and had seen her and met her intense eyes twice that night. I couldn’t tell if she was homeless or not, but I suspected that she might be. She appeared to be several years older than me and she was very beautiful and her eyes shone of mental illness and ineffable loss and warmth.
I was happy to see her again at the library. And happy that she'd sat next to me, even though I'd been about to leave.
Before I walked away, I asked her if she wanted the rest of my paper, explained that I'd used all I was going to use, and that I was now done with it. She looked at me with her penetrating gaze and seemed as though she was going to burst into laughter. But then she didn't. She just said “Yes" with a half-vacant and half-giddy calm. So I gave her the paper and she said “Thank you.” Then I asked if she wanted any markers. She said “Yes” again and I said “Which colors?” I held the box up for her to see, and she said “Orange,” like it was a thing of magic, part of an incantation. So I gave her the orange marker. Then I started to leave. A few minutes after I’d walked away it occurred to me that I should have just given her all of the markers, or at least all of the ones I was certain I wouldn't still need to alter the sky, the grass, the sun, and the apple. So I turned back and gave her the rest of the box. As I did I said “Here, you might need more colors.” She smiled and thanked me and I looked down and saw that she'd written all of the same rules I'd written: Look and listen, Sit properly, Speak English, Be nice.
For whatever reason, this moved me. I walked away feeling kinder and lighter and less burdened. The air seemed somehow cleaner and the Saturday afternoon seemed somehow fuller.
I left the library as part of a much larger current. One so gentle and enormous that I often forget about it. I walked briefly through the first touch of winter to sit with my friends and eat a warm sandwich in a warm Cuban cafe. I tried to explain about the woman at the library. But the things fumbling out of my mouth fell short. And I didn't want that to be how the story ended.
P.S.
I’ve turned on paid subscriptions for Think List.
All posts will remain free and public for the foreseeable. So this will not affect your current subscription in any way. The paid options are just there for people who want and are able to support the independent writing that I do here. If you are one of those people, you can now donate $5/month or $50/year. Consider it a recurring tip, one that you can cancel or pause at any time.
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Or don’t. Up to you.
To everyone in my family: Your money’s no good here.
To everyone else: Your money’s fine.
P.P.S.
This doesn’t really relate to anything above. But it is, like my encounter at the library, a small hunk of magic that I’ve been carrying around for a bunch of years. It moves me in ways that I can’t quite put my finger on, and it shows me that there is always a kinder and calmer version of myself below the surface that I can draw from at will. What a song. And what a perfect performance.