I took a walk to get a cup of coffee at Casey’s this morning. I love living in a neighborhood where I can get out and walk to a business; any business…doesn’t matter. I care less and less for suburbia every day. I want people…all kinds. I want to pass them and wonder why they won’t look at me, or talk to them and walk away trying to figure out what the heck they just said, or joy upon joys…find something in common with someone that doesn’t look like me or live the way I live.
I love my new house. It’s warm and inviting and nicely situated in a good neighborhood with tons of friends for the kids and for us. But it’s still suburbia. I won’t go so far as to say that it isn’t reality…it’s real enough, it’s just so planned and neat and tidy. It makes me wonder what’s hidden. Hmmm…the squirrels in the back yard have taken a chunk of bird food coagulated in peanut butter and placed it in my pond. I’m almost excited, and wondering how strange I must be? My neat and tidy was just disrupted by a squirrel. Perhaps they were a gang who rivals the birds? The furs and the feathers fighting and disrespecting each others turf…and food. Now they’ve upset the goldfish in my pond so the war is spreading. Fish don’t like their water murked up by furs…I predict a large “scale” effort of retaliation is coming. It could get dangerous.
For as disruptive as the furs, feathers and fins are, the human condition in my neighborhood is neat and tidy and mostly good. Oh, people have their problems, no doubt, but they keep them safely stored inside pretty houses surrounded by manicured lawns, decorated by floribunda of every kind. It makes it so palatable. Life. Life is more palatable if it is frosted like a cupcake with sprinkles and a cherry on top. That’s my neighborhood. The streets are clean, the people drive pretty cars (yellow seems to be the color of choice here), and the people talk about one thing…their jobs. What do you do? What does your wife or husband do? What do I do? I’m cynically bored. I admit it. It Doesn’t matter who they are, they want to talk about what they do to make money. Even the kids—what does your dad do, what does your mom do? Groan and humph.
Why am I not satisfied? Why can’t I just accept this wonderful gift of calm and be happy with it? Around the world people are fighting to keep what they have, little as it might be. They fight to keep their children—in Kenya little boys are being abducted and forced to join militant groups. In other places, little girls are taken to serve as sex slaves. I should be grateful. But me…no…I walk in my bare feet when others wear shoes just to feel different. “I’m not like you…I’m an implant…just wanna make sure you know…by my feet…that I don’t belong here!” I wonder how they would react to seeing my dirty naked feet…when the street is so clean. “Hmm…how did her feet get that dirty in our neighborhood?”
How I would adore talking to someone who was as bored with neat and tidy as I am. Bobbles and trinkets mean nothing to me. I kinda feel sick looking at all my pretty things…I would rather look at people’s eyes. Try to figure out what is going on inside of them…I want to talk to people who want to talk about something other than how to make money. I want to hear about life; it’s realities from perspectives other than what I know so well. I want to learn to love all kinds of people for all kinds of reasons…see down into their souls and hear the echo of life from their wellspring. I want to be in touch with what is going on outside of my world. I’m just so worn from neat and tidy.
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