A few weeks ago I started trying to breathe in people's stories. Not in the nod your head and smile kind of way, but in a slow me down and let me understand you kind of way.
While I am boiling dumplings at my archaic stove, this man
has become a mini-series of stories for my mind to enjoy. Daily he wanders
downstairs to water his plants or dry out red beans in the afternoon sun. His
lanky shoulders tower over dainty dandelions as he steals dirt and puts it into
his house plants. He shifts the dirt into piles so that passersby won’t notice
what he’s doing. But I see. I watch his sly grin purse as he pats down the new
dirt and he gingerly tends to the garden already there. As if being gentle
minimizes the fact that he is stealing their dirt.
My kids roll through and talk to him. I watch him teach them
about uses of the sunlight and how much water to feed a potted aloe plant. He
laughs and sometimes scolds as my kids take off their shoes to run around in
bare-footed freedom.
I’ve never seen a wife, son, or daughter with him. But his
connection with his plants has become a stop in curiosity for me. He tenderly
wipes their leaves with a soft rag. The flowers are spoken to. I haven’t
listened to what he is saying, but I imagine he is telling them that he will be
back tomorrow. That tonight it’s going to rain, so they will need to be brave.
But he will be back tomorrow. As he exhorts the tiny dandelions all tucked in
for the night, I see his sense of purpose straighten out his shoulders.
With retirement he was replaced by talent and youth. That
did not go unnoticed. But he walked into retirement determined to find his
place. While he is no longer a manager of hundreds of people, he knew he could
be a manager of a few. He knew that instead of letting retirement be defined by
self-indulgence and pity, he could still serve someone else. He walks down
those concrete stairs each late afternoon, looking around to try to find a need
to be met. It requires keen observation to see a need that is buried beneath
the surface of things. It requires patience and thoughtful digging to bring
resolution. But because he is willing to engage the world in such a way, rows
of dandelions march through the summer breeze in confidence. My kids run
downstairs to ask him questions because they know he will take the time to
answer. He is present. Presence sees the person in front of you not as a task
but as a story. And in that presence he is listening.
