Ramblings. As in: Have Words -Will Ramble. As in: Ramble: to write or talk aimlessly or without sequence of ideas, to proceed with turns and twists; meander As In: observances of an everyday life in passing through the spectrum of extraordinary.
Dwanda's Gift
Thursday, November 18, 2004
I am lying on blanket in Bicentinial park. A woman approches me carrying a multitude of bags. Talking first to herself, then to me.
She approaches me and asks if I have a dollar to spare.
"No," I tell her, which is true. I'm usually good for a dollar and don't care where it goes. What matters to me if it's on drink or the lottery or warm soup. It's the giving of it that interests me. But on this day I have no dollars to give.
"Not a dollar," I say. " Not a dime."
The woman pauses. She looks down at me. I cup my hands over my eyes to shield them from the sun, focus on the shadow of her. She puts down her bags and shuffles through her jeans. "Look here she says, God have mercy on me when I don't have something to give. Let me help you out." So she pulls out a worn dollar from her jeans, a dollar that has seen some things, and rattles out coins from half a dozen pockets. "For you," she says. I start to protest but she pulls up her pants, shows me her metal leg trailed by her metal foot. "Lost it in a wreck," she says. "All I have to do is show people my leg and tell them my story. I'll get a dollar." No doubt, I think. And why not? If a metal leg isn't worth a dollar, the story about the losing of one kind and the gaining of another, sure should be.
Then she asks me my name - which she likes a lot and tells me hers - Dewanda. I tell her I like her name, too.
Then Dewanda tells me to keep the amber in my hair and that I should always wear earth tones. "Listen to what I'm saying now." She searches for a match, "And don't forget, earth tones look best on your skin. You don't smoke do you?"
"Not anymore."
"Well, you might not believe me but I know what I'm saying.I know about colors." She gives up on the light, returns the cigarette to her pack. Says, "Reckon God's telling me I didn't need that smoke no way."
Remembering Peter - (Silver and gold I have none but . . . ) I offer to pray for her. It's the least I can do yes? Afterall, I'm a believer. What else does a believer do?
To be honest, I don't remember praying for Dewanda, for what was (or wasn't) in her bags, for her metal leg, for her riches, or the lack of them. But I remember Dewanda praying for me. Because she did. A high and mighty, somebody sure is listening prayer. A somebody has read The Bible prayer. An open-handed prayer. Dewanda prays for this pilgrim with all her homeless heart.
And then she walks off saying, "Remember me in your prayers, River Jordan." Then praising God for something I can't hear. For just a moment I watch her go and think about the angels unaware verse. But Dewanda looks real, all real woman less one leg.
Later, my husband says, incredulously, "You took money from a homeless woman?"
"Yes," I say, "and candy too - look she gave me pieces of things." And so she did. Bits of mints and old pieces of gum. I save them for a long, long, time before I finally throw them away.
I couldn't explain the logic of that act. Me taking money, taking candy, from someone living on the streets and in between them. There was none. Just me and Dewanda caught in a moment in the park. A simple slice of time where one human being meets another and there is that momentary bubble - that moment of stranger-to-stranger acknowledging that we are alive and the same in spite of - everything. That we are sisters with stories to tell. That we could pass a few minutes, or even hours, in one another's company and both be the better for it.
Later that night I step inside a church and I place Dewanda's money in the offering. I write her story and her name on the back of the envelope and pause a moment before I turn to leave. I am thinking of the widow with the coin. Of how the smallest gift can be the greatest.Of how Dwanda's dollar reeks of selflessness. Of an open palm and unclinched hand. And I pray miracles for Dwanda.
Some nights Dwanda's parting words, "Pray for me," echo in my soul. Not every night, but some nights. Particularly in the evenings when I lie in my warm bed, sometimes before I fall asleep I remember and I pray, "Lord, keep Dwanda warm tonight. And give her food, and keep her safe," not always knowing that I have made a difference, but at least hoping that I have. That in some small part of all that matters, one small soul remembering another accounts for something special. And in that accounting there is power. And in that power, purpose. And in that purpose, Peace. And so it goes, from this Pilgrim on the Road, River Jordan
posted by River Jordan at 10:05 PM
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Libba's World
Thursday, November 11, 2004
My friend Libba is a card. A character. Truly. She is 80-something young. Normally that's a crock but in her case, it's not. She teaches me to take pleasure in the low places. She teaches me to remember that life is full of embraceable passion. She is a white flame that dances through my life and reminds me there is a party going on and we're the party. I need her. This somber-spirited introvert needs her.
I first met Libba at a writer's conference. In the buffet line. We both commented on how large the chicken pieces were (more like small guineas) and agreed, total strangers that we were, to share a piece.
The first thing that struck me about herwas that she was dressed all in white, head to toe. The second was that she was beautiful. And the other thing was her passion. A simple joy in truly being alive. Who can't be touched by the presence of that? It's in such demand and such short supply.
So a friendship began and a quick bargain was struck - if I should ever find my may to Charleston that I would look Libba up and come stay with her a day or two. She encouraged me with all graciousness. Said she had only a daybed for me but that it would suffice because she lived in a penthouse that looked over the city where we could sit and talk and watch the lights come on at night. I said I would - if I found my way up to Charleston someday.
And so I did. One hot tired night leaving a book convention. There was the empty road calling and me, truly uncertain, of exactly which way to turn, so I turned North and as the night wore on found my way near Charleston and so I called this woman that I had met once and by chance. "Come on," she says.
I followed her directions to the Penthouse. Now in our world the Penthouse turned out to be a retirement home of which Libba lived on the fourteenth floor. But then, that's our world. And who needs that? In Libba's world the lights were on and we could see the Charleston bridge through the window. I found a gracious spirit, grapes, and over a glass of wine, she lit the candles and we conversed late into the night about life and travels and travails.
We had lunches at great restaurants and walked the streets of Charleston and through the great hotels that offered service we would be fond of if we were in the range of receiving such luxury. "Someday" we said, "We'll come back and have champagne brunch." And on that day, with Libba, with her spinning out the tale, the someday was as good as being there.
Later, Libba moved to Chattanooga. I was sorry to hear. I had made friends with a Gullah man that lived in her building, a Catholic woman, Maria who gave me a rosary and told me I should pray it daily, but more importantly she gave me a story of a miracle, full of magic and delight to treasure forever, a man that looked like Santa Claus and taxied us about while pointing out the sites - oh yes, and a woman who had been a cultural anthropologist and told me I had Viking blood in my veins (which might explain some things.)
But when Libba left the coast for Tennessee I had to leave with her as our visits ventured inland where she said, "You must come see me, I'm in a mountain chalet."
Indeed. A chalet. In our world a simple townhouse on the outskirts of downtown Chattanooga but in Libba's world, more room than anyone should need. A great view of the hills, and so much green.
She invited over friends to celebrate me and we broke bread at her table. And told stories of life and loves and loves lost and gained. Of good men and bad ones. Of the winding path that life can take beneath our feet both when we're looking and when we're not.
The next morning I came down the stairs where Libba lit the candles and declared, "Look, the party hasn't stopped." And in her presence this was true but eventually, I had to make my way to go.
Recently, I called Libba after life had kept me busy in the manner that we consider life at its busy best. And I learned that she had married and divorced since our last parting (a story she is sure to tell next time we meet.) And she's moved again.
"I'm in the best place I've ever lived," she tells me. In our world it's a retirement home, in Libba's world its something else.
"I never have to cook," she says. "They come to clean, even wash my sheets if you can believe. They wait on me hand and foot. And I've made the nicest friends."
I've promised her I'll come. Help hang her pictures on the walls. She says, "When?"
"Soon," I say. "Before Christmas."
I'm holding myself to it. I need the reality of Libba's world. I need the passion of her perspective. Where life is good. And wondrous. And worth living. Where the party is never over as long as we're alive.
And so it goes from this Pilgrim on the Road
River Jordan
posted by River Jordan at 11:17 AM
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IN THE BOOTH
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Like millions of you today I voted. I stepped inside the hallowed booth and pushed the buttons. No one peeking over my shoulder. No angry mobs. No gangster Democrats or Republicans outside the curtain threatening me to vote one way or the other - or else.
It has been a season of war and a season of pain in this country in different ways. A long season of an election that didn't always show the candidates at their best. Or we, the citizens, at ours. Many of us became fueled by the righteousness of our own ideals and beliefs to the point that we became intolerant for the right to someone to hold a different opinion. As a nation we are recognizing our differences. On matters of international security and on domestic issues at home. Some are borderline and some are significant but all are meaningful to us as individuals.
In the midst of all the flag waving and name-calling and issue bashing here is something to consider. All democrats are not "left-wing, pinko-commie liberals" and not all Republicans are "rich, white, elitist Bible-thumping snobs." I know this for a fact because I have good friends and relatives that are Democrats and I have good friends and family members who are Republicans (and I think I have a Green Party friend or two as well.) I like them all. A lot. (Well, okay, most of them. I love all of them. Like most of them.)
We've been through rough times together. We've raised kids together. Gone to their baptisms and their graduations. We've survived our children dating one another. (And secretly wished it would have stuck.) We've shared the care and concern for ailing, dying parents. We've been there heart, body, and soul. We've kept one another in our prayers and in time of need helped one another with our pocketbooks. We've ridden out the triumphs and tragedies of this life - together. We don't always agree politically on all the issues. We don't have to. We, as a people, need to take the ridiculous anger off our positioning (and believe me I have my own positions and I stand by them) and get back to a few of the basics.
Americans are a passionate people and we are allowed to disagree with one another. And we are allowed to do so loudly and openly. But when the last poll closes, when the counting is over, when all is said and done, we need to remember what matters most - each other.
I knew today when I voted that there was a fifty/fifty chance that the volunteers who assisted me were voting for someone other than who I was. But there they were, in all their unpaid glory, assisting me to the best of their ability through the process. They were not only proud to do it, but proud of every American who walked through that door, everyone they were able to tag "I voted" as they walked out. And that's something that every American in this country should be thankful about tonight.
The freedom of the process still stands.
I may wake up in the morning with someone standing in the highest office in the land for whom I didn't vote. Should that be the case, I will not move to another country or question the President's authority. I will support and pray for the person that stands in one of the most honored, important, and responsible positions in the world. I will support the right of this country to continue to choose its leader. And then to stand by them for better or worse for four more years.
My greatest vote today has not been for a President. It has been my vote for a country that turned out in record numbers to vote without major incident. Without gunfire. Without exploding car bombs. A country that voted, in spite of our differences of opinion and ideology, peaceably. Regardless of who wins the election tonight that is a victory worth celebrating.
River Jordan
posted by River Jordan at 7:43 PM
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