Stranger No Name
For nearly a year now, in and about my neighborhood, my attention is often to drawn to one of the most amazingly beautiful woman I have ever seen. She is the kind of exotic, dark skinned beauty that makes me want to trade in my pale Ukrainian heritage for dark, cascading hair, golden brown skin laid firmly over high bone structure, lips lined with a soft pink rim, and deep amber eyes that seem to hold the soul of the earth. She embodies a natural beauty that makes you want bathe in blueberries and anti aging cream. Her style is effortless, robed in layered, flowing bohemian wraps, fingers dressed in turquoise and silver. She moves her body with the grace of a dancer, and yet with a strength and groundedness that tells you she has had to withstand much more in her life than her flawless Carmel skin reveals. Age is difficult to determine, but both innocence and wisdom are apparent. Aside from her striking aesthetics I am further drawn to her attraction to literature; classics, philosophies and an occasional crime novel. She always travels intently with a book, diving into the words like a pool of cool water; she is mesmerized and studies the content with an obviously fierce passion and yet somehow still manages to place one foot in front of the other. I see her at the park, occasionally swinging on the swings, giggling as the butterflies in her stomach seem to take her to a place of freedom. She often practices yoga on a wide paisley tapestry just as unique as her attire, and to no surprise her form, expression, steady breath and tangible connection to energy indicates a dedicated self study that has clearly been a companion for many years. I have yet to introduce myself, why I am not sure. We have established the kind of eye contact and head-nod reminiscent of a respectable and composed old world greeting; one where words would limit the authenticity of exchange. She looks not just at you, but through you in a way that leaves the wind of her spirit echoing in the walls of your soul; a reunion, a remembrance that we are never alone, or separate, and that we have all been with one another before.
I see her almost every morning, as the rise of the sun crests the tops of the trees with hope and promise of a new day. I see her almost every morning….. pulling trash out of ally dumpsters, filling her bike basket with a bag of wasted food and chains of coca-cola cans strung along the back of her sleeping bag… just as stunning and curious as the day before. I do not know where she lays her head to rest, I do not know where she maintains her orderly sense of self. It is as if she appears for the sake of my inquiry, a gift of contemplation and tender willingness to find value in the most mundane, in the people that stand out not because of their role, but rather their mere presence. I wonder how others see her, what they think, what they feel, what state of experience she leaves them touched with. I spend much of my life devoted to a practice that encourages me to move beyond the roles of my ‘story’; to connect to my essence, beyond what I do, what I have, where I have been; to know that there is a peaceful part of me that does not need to be labeled, identified or validated. This women is one of the most peaceful and content looking beings I have seen. Though I am not sure, I sense her competency to live another kind of life, more in line the with rest of us. But perhaps she has chosen her gypsy path as liberation, as an acceptance of her Self as she IS, unfolding into her self worth, found from within rather than a false, overly attached, external construction of identity. It is not my intention to romanticize poverty or homelessness, but rather explore the unnecessary value we place on our story, role, and status….seeking validation from beyond ourselves. What strikes me is the way she moves through life with a sense of confidence and simple freedom I don’t often witness with most people, homeless or not. I am curious to know her, from the inside out, I want to gain insight from her unique perspective. She makes me ask questions, she makes me think and reevaluate my constructs, she breaks old assumptions and dissolves the false security of judgment, she challenges, motivates and inspires me; she gets to my core, she shows me humility, courage and acceptance….she is a teacher….and she is eating my leftovers….and that is beautiful, if we allow it!
I respect the integrity in a person who can roam the street on her bicycle-home with an honesty and meaning in their heart that speaks to the world, “I am who I am”, no matter what happens, no matter what others think. She seems to be guided by and inner strength and wisdom that doesn’t rely on others. I do not feel sorry for her, nor does she not take the role of the victim, she is proud to BE. I do not judge. I certainly do not assume I know more, or am better than. I open my heart to the possibility of who she IS; I open my Self to the lessons of her truth and she invites me deeper to hear the voice of my own authentic gypsy guide.
I once asked a neighbor, if she knew the ‘story’ of the beautiful and mysterious Indian princess, “Oh, her..just another homeless, I suppose, don’t really pay much attention, never take the time to notice.” I can’t do anything other than notice. How can she be so easily overlooked, and why am I so drawn to her? This is not the first time; a few years ago I met a mysterious man and wrote about that story as well (Kindness in all forms). Perhaps these two are messengers of truth leading me to an experience that invites me to seek knowledge in those places that we usually turn our backs to; those people or situations we avoid out of discomfort. But it is within these circumstance where compassion, oneness and wisdom reside. It is the things we understand the least that we have the most to learn from.
Robin Afinowich
