Bowl 27: Barbara

I've been carrying this bowl for weeks . . .

the weather's turned cold . . . 

a hurricane

a snow storm,

all in all, difficult days for finding someone sitting on a park bench

open to a conversation.

I go to the library,

to the cafe downstairs near the shelves of the used book sale . . .

A woman browses, wrapped against the weather

although it is quite cozy inside.

She carries books and books on tape.

We smile, pass each other as we browse, pass and smile again.

She moves to a table with a bowl of soup and removes her wrap.

 Conversation feels possible, but two artists I know are sitting nearby . . . 

I feel intimidated. . . what will they think? do they know my project? will I look the fool?

 . . .so much doubt!

I am tempted to abandon the entire project.

I swallow my pride, and my fears, and say hello.

In her pile is Tales of the Alhambra by Washington Irving . . . 

an audio book I've listened to . . . and a place I've been.

She tells me she is going to Spain in the spring

and I recall being in the Alhambra many years ago, 

my eyes glazing over as I wandered through rooms covered with lush pattern and texture --

floor to ceiling - and floor and ceiling.

then coming upon a bath in muted blues and greens,

and being stunned by the beauty and the simplicity of the space.

We share our relief that the weather has broken

and at the outcome of the election -- 

we'd both worked on the same campaigns but hadn't crossed paths.

She says she's driving to New York for the weekend

something I'll be doing as well only a week later.

Her mother-in-law is packing to go to Florida.

My mom lives in Florida and I'll be going too next month.

Fear is long gone and I am warmed by the many small connections we find.

The exchange of a bowl and some conversation . . .

so simple, so satisfying . . . 

and almost abandoned in the face of emotions that dissolved, like the storms, a just few moments later.