to the strangers who stick around

Fifth start of this post: my aches have molded into the mattress, leaving my mind to wander elsewhere. Unfortunately, elsewhere doesn't offer much for the creative process. Neither does playing the same song on loop for an hour, piling clean laundry in the corner of my room, or watching the flowers wilt away on my bookcase. Then again, maybe the latter does.

I bought them more than a week ago, and although showing signs of weakness early on, they're still here. A new candle burns below. A vase from a stranger holds letters, card, and notes nearby. A straw wrapper rests on the desk across the room. It's half curled around the only snow globe I own, from a little boy in the first class I helped teach. At three years old, he wouldn't speak outside his home. I decided to help him break down that wall.  I'll never forget the power of hearing his first, "hello." Each time I look at the receding water level, I smile, thinking that he's likely one moment closer to breaking down more barriers. I trust that he doesn't know a single stranger.

That's the type of person I aspire to be.

---

When I started driving for Lyft last month, I needed the side income. After the first ride, I realized that I actually needed to communicate with more of the world--in the moments that we're all most open and free. I've developed friendships with my regulars. I've spent sad moments wishing that I had a way to contact one-timers for the sake of updating our life stories.

On Friday night, I cried twice. 

I picked up my favorite regular. We discussed life updates and the social effects on housing laws & costs on success (as society defines it). He promised that when (not if) I make it out to Oregon, even if he's not there, his family will be if I need a friend on my side. Even if the words don't result in action, the sentiment felt strong. The tears welled up when we prolonged our latest "see you next time" goodbye. 

Three rides later, I rode a roller-coaster of emotions that led me straight home. An Australian accent in a blue suit knocked on my window to verify the vehicle. Once he sat down, the conversation took off immediately. This man told me the story of falling in love with his wife, moving from Florida to Iowa to be near her family, and becoming a father to two little girls.

He joyfully cried about them.

In that conversation, he asked, "so is there a man or a woman or a person in your life?" Normally those questions unsettle me. This time I smiled, largely in appreciation of his obviously open mind.

I sighed, "Technically no, but I want him to be." We briefly discussed who and why.

He offered vague kindness before stating, "There are things that you're experiencing that I never have, and that's really hard. The world is different now compared to when I was 22."

"I wish more people understood that," I said.

He clamored, "Oh no, I don't understand it, but I'd really like to." I smiled.

---

On the drive home, I reminisced about recent and distant moments with those who made me feel important--the way that strangers who become friends do. I smiled when I thought about road trips, cross-country flights, and back road photo shoots. When I remembered the random book stores I've spent hours in, the metro stops that I've admired art around, the streets I've ran up and down and up and down.

And I smiled when I thought of you, our parking lot moments, and the words we've never let go unsaid.

"It doesn't matter if you spend more than an hour laying in the grass after work for the sake of spending more time with a person you deeply appreciate. It doesn't matter if you leave letters on windshields." [from "the first (roughly) 365 chances at adulting"]

It turns out that it does matter. It matters that you laugh on nature walks in the park around the art center that opens 30 minutes later than your planned arrival time. It matters when you appreciate not only listening to each other but also hearing the emotions. It matters when the littlest things are shared moments (I still am impressed that the ant won the fight against the bee). It matters when you never want to let go, when you always want to hold on.

And it matters when you've found someone who has spent months making you want to be a better person, even if they didn't know it.

It matters because sometimes 48 hours will pass and suddenly you have a different answer. It's no longer, "I want him to be," but instead, "He is."

Thanks for being who you are.