I'm not entirely certain of the when, but I am very familiar with the where — downtown, Spokane, West Third Avenue, just after you turn right to merge onto I-90 West. I was moving toward the direction of home. I'm also not entirely certain how I was feeling, but I imagine I was somewhat in a hurry, anxious to be enveloped by the warmth and comfort of sacred personal space — the home, partner and pets — making up my daily world. I can assume this was an accurate sensation because my introversion is a near-ubiquitous new normal. My general gregarious nature tamped way down — gone the way of many other pre-pandemic characteristics.
As I rounded the corner heading for the highway, I was forced to stop, as a charcoal gray Jeep stood still in the street. I'm pretty sure confusion arose first because traffic wasn't flowing as expected. And while I long to write that curiosity arose second, if I'm being honest, it was probably a feeling more akin to annoyance or impatience. However, those initial reactions are completely overshadowed by what happened next.
Upon registering the stopped vehicle, my brain communicated that I should search for a reason, and that's when my eyes spotted him, the pedestrian. A man of average height, wearing grungy, faded pale blue-white jeans, with an oversized coat-type flannel. He was also stalled, poised on the lip of the sidewalk waiting for the driver waiting on him. In his hand, he held a sturdy, pale, bleached, wooden walking stick — possibly carved, definitely adorned with feathers, about 5 or 6 feet tall. The man radiated weariness and pain, which was reflected through his perturbed demeanor and small perceptible bodily movements — slow, shallow inhalations, a tilt to the side and lean on the stick, a small wince. He, the driver and I were well aware it would take quite some time for him to get across the road. So, he gruffly and grumpily made the decision for all of us, waving the Jeep forward frantically. His hand slapping and swiping hard at the air indicating an resigned acquiescence to the automobile.
Enchanted, I watched wondering whether the person behind the wheel would take the opportunity, speed up and rush through, leaving me to make the same decision, or would they remain steadfast in their decision to remain still.
A man transformed before me, becoming much lighter, eyes brighter, a body lifted, less hunched, exhaustion extinguished.
The driver stood their ground, waiting, and so the pedestrian relented, inching ahead. He disappeared from my line of sight for a few seconds and I bore witness to his reemergence. He reappeared. The surly, sour expression once worn was replaced with a radiance. A smile and a repeated hand gesture landing somewhere between a "rock on" symbol and the Hawaiian Shaka. Because I could only faintly see the driver's back, I have no idea whether the pedestrian's reaction was brought on by their actions — maybe they offered a smile, a nod, a wave, creating connection. Perhaps it was just the driver's patience, their provision of safe passage or their acknowledgement of mutuality, dignity and worth.
These are the details I'm not likely to ever discover, but the result itself was worthwhile. A man transformed before me, becoming much lighter, eyes brighter, a body lifted, less hunched, exhaustion temporarily extinguished.
Strangely, my ear heard the laughter before I recognized it as my own, bubbling up from within. I "returned to myself." Father Greg Boyle explains those times when we glimpse our truest form, where the soul resides layered beneath the projections we cast out to others. It had been awhile since I had been meaningfully present, stapled into my body, out of my own rapid and ceaseless thoughts, actually able to watch the spark as it passed from driver to pedestrian to this bystander-receiver-self. I felt deeply human with an ancient, comfortable knowing that this is how we are meant to show up with each other — awakened from the autopilot of incessant forecasting over uncertain futures and ruminating over unchangeable pasts.
I wanted to freeze the feeling, capturing it for those times when the world is too big and crashes in around us — during a supermarket shooting spree, a war, or in the slower human degradation of housing, food and health insecurities. I wanted to hold on to it for those times when I am far too small — too judgmental, impatient, unkind or awash in self-obsession. I wanted to be able to recall the scene when I forget the heart of who we are as humans. Though I doubt I'll ever meet the driver or pedestrian, I'm memorializing us together in a moment, cementing our shared bond in words.
Sometimes we slow down enough to really see. Sometimes we make a choice to create safety, shield and shepherd one another enough to grant safe passage. Sometimes we get to witness and become part of a beautiful story. ♦
Inga N. Laurent is a local legal educator and a Fulbright scholar. She is deeply curious about the world and its constructs and delights in uncovering common points of connection that unite our shared but unique human experiences.
