Bowl 18: Michael

There's a pile of stuff on the sidewalk,
interesting stuff.
And being someone who likes to find treasures
in someone else's trash
I begin to look through it.

Someone else joins me and we look together . . .
78 records, an "original authentic desk blotter", empty violin cases.

The person responsible for the pile emerges from the brick-front town house.
He carries a Russian poster of Lenin, clearly old, clearly original,
and offers it to my comrade.
I am chagrined . . . I want it!

But he invites me inside and says I can choose anything I want,
there is nothing I need, but I am intrigued by the decrepit beauty of the building.
"It was my father's he tells me . . . he was born in 1920"
the same year as mine, I note.
And he shows me photos of four generations . . .
his father,
his grandfather,
himself,
and his daughters.

And now he is leaving it all behind.
Clearing out the remains of lives lived here.
Leaving it on the street
for others to find and recycle into their lives.

Later I pass by again.
Almost nothing remains
but some very old books, pre- and early 20th century
I pick them up and bring them home.

Bowl 17: Angela

July at the farmer's market.

Humming

buzzing

bursting with energy.

Vegetables, flowers, cheeses, baked goods.

Tables overflowing.

People overflowing.

Long lines, 

arms heaped with produce.

But her space is quiet.

Monastic even.

A few beautifully packaged raw food offerings.

Crackers, pâté, spreads, nut/fruit goodies.

She offers a taste. 

Delicious!

The kind of sweet that satisfies with a single, small bite.

She's turned her passion into her business over the past year

and seems really content.

Though I can't help but wonder how it feels

to be in her island of peace,

in the midst of the chaotic energy of the summer market.

. . . and I forgot to ask.

Bowl 16: Joan

"My name is Joan," I say.

"So is mine," she laughs.

It's noon.

Sun beating down, relentless.

But her lunch bench is perfect.

shade.

breeze.

water view.

I remark on a bright red bird flashing by.

She says she comes often.

Sees rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels

the ubiquitous geese,

pairs of swans.

She knows Olmsted and his parks.

Here, and in New York and Buffalo

where she lived as a girl.

"Not so many Joans," she says.

"It's so bland."

"Plain," I agree.

But what's in a name?

I google it.

so many Joans! 

Joan of Arc

Joan Baez

Joan Halifax

Joan Jett

Joan Cusak

Joan Miro

Joan Rivers, to name a few.

and even,

Jo-an (teahouse), a National Treasure in Inuyama, Aichi Prefecture, Japan.

Bowl 15: Carol

We could not be more different.

She in her gold bracelets and designer sunglasses.

Me in my second hand clogs and sunglasses bought for $1.69 at Building 19-1/2.

She stares straight ahead as I seat myself on her bench.

And listens politely as I describe my offer.

"My hands are not so beautiful," she says.

"Beautiful hands are not the point," I reply.

Although to me all hands are beautiful.

The worn and the cared for

the supple and the gnarled.

All reflecting the journey of our lives.

We talk of art, and we come closer.

We speak of Christo's Gates

and the beauty of multiples.

Of how dozens of flowers of a single kind can be breathtaking in its symmetry.

And how a bouquet of wildflowers brings a different joy in its diversity.

Then she speaks of her grandson's first birthday party.

With 12,000 gold balloons to welcome the guests.

And the lake and bridge that was created for them to cross over into the party.

And my mind boggles

And I can't help but think of the hundreds who might have been fed, 

even just for the price of the balloons.

And yet, she receives the bowl with grace and gratitude.

"I'll have to make tea now," she says with a smile.

Bowl 14: Ani

I am captivated

by a display of poems written by children

in the window of a bookstore.

People stop. . .  pause . . . move on.

Then someone stays.

We read in silence for a time.

Are you a poet? I ask.

No, she smiles, but I love poems.

We read on, separate and together.

Then I offer a bowl.

Look she says, it matches my outfit.

and it does.

A happy accident.

Like finding poetry,

or a kindred spirit,

right in the midst of everyday life.

Bowl 13: Sean

He has stood near clinics since 1987,

talking to women and "saving lives."

I approach trying to keep my heart open.

He is not someone I normally move toward.

He is friendly, with the calm confidence that he is doing "God's work."

He tells me he been a street counselor for many years, 

some of them full time - living on $15 a week and the generosity of friends.

"It's always wrong to kill," he says.

And I agree -- it is, in fact, the first precept.

And yet I know that being human, we destroy life all the time,

knowingly and unknowingly . . . 

being human, we do the best we can.

And I also know, as a woman, the relief of knowing

that I would not be a mother before I was ready,

and the lingering pain of deciding to end the possibility of life.

Life moves through everything

forming and re-forming.

In a perfect world all babies would be loved and cherished.

All beings would be nourished, safe, and healthy.

In this perfectly imperfect world, living beings suffer in so many ways.

and though we may not agree,

we can still move toward one another

keeping our hearts open,

knowing that being human, we all do the best we can.

Bowl 12: Alinda

I am in a bright, clear space 

surrounded by tea bowls.

the work of master hands --

from the infinitely subtle

to the rough essence of earth and stone.

"which are your favorites," she asks.

and I am dumbfounded --

 each is so alive in its own being.

earth, air, fire, water

body, mind, spirit

all transformed. 

become a vessel to hold tea.