I'm sitting or rather slouching back on the brown tweed recliner in the corner of our living room, sneaking glances at the many people who walk along the busy street near our apartment. Cars go whizzing by, while pedestrians meander slowly, pausing to catch the bus or check for directions on their journey. I close my eyes and the noise reminds me of waves crashing lightly on a distant beach, the water rolling in and then receding back out to sea. I'm impressed by the array of colors represented by these walkers or joggers, skaters or drunks. Blue and hot pink, and then a striped shirt and a baseball jacket. I know that cliche statement about not passing judgement based on appearances, but I wonder if my presuppositions about these folks is all that far from the truth.
One man in particular looks down on his luck, scrambling to catch the next bus that will take him to a potential job opportunity via a friend of a friend. Then there's the guy who looks about 19, weaving in and out of traffic on his beat-up skateboard, hair flowing in the wind, his back to the world and the past that he's trying to beat.
Another young man, probably in his early 20s, dressed in a clean-cut fitted shirt and argyle shorts anxiously walks a few steps behind a straight-faced woman rushing off in front with her many shopping bags, eager to lead the way. I wonder if he knows that she's not interested in whether he can keep pace because she is more concerned about getting where she needs to be, quickly, rather than walking alongside someone in relationship.
A dog barks loudly and I'm drawn to the teenage girl positioned on a low, flat rock beside the closest bus stop. Her eyes are darting to and fro, perhaps hoping she can safely board the bus today without any older men approaching her or begging her attention. These are just a handful of the people I notice at the bus stop each day, morning-noon-night they are here, if only for a moment, to get where they are going.
Watching these people move in and out of my vantage point from the second floor of our concrete apartment building, I can't help but wonder what their real stories are like. I could be completely wrong in how I judge them from the outside, through the glass lens of my balcony door. And yet I have this deep longing to understand the few moments I experience of their lives, even in a more removed sense.
Perhaps my desire to understand and be understood, comes from an experience I had at fitness class on Friday. After a grueling 45-minute workout, my instructor asked our class, "So, how are you going to be active this weekend?" In my usual motivated and upbeat tone, I yelled, "Bike riding!" Smiling as I shared that little tidbit about my commitment to exercise outside of class, I turned toward my fellow classmates, waiting for their affirmation. Almost immediately, I was met by the somewhat curt expression from a newer classmate, a young woman about my age, who belted, "Somehow, I bet you're not bike riding this weekend." The weight of her words crushed in on me. "What did you say? I love bike riding..." I retorted, as my voice trailed off into oblivion. An awkward pause followed by a stinging pain, singed my body. The rush of warmth from embarrassment momentarily consumed me. "Does she have any idea who I am? Does this girl know that I've been in boot camp for three months now and that I bike ride often with my husband? Does she think that I'd lie about exercise--that I'm a liar?"
Negative thoughts swarmed around me, threatening to prick me with their poison. Prior to that day's workout, I had been grappling with my own fears about "measuring up" in various areas of my life. Launching my own business in wedding planning has proved more strenuous and challenging than I ever would have imagined. Balancing my current workload of planning and coordinating weddings and memorial services, along with my involvement in weekly church ministries, has illustrated my inability to give 100% of myself to everyone and every commitment--a painful process of learning to let go of my own expectations. And not to mention my desire to be a loving wife and supportive teammate to my husband. My inattention to care taking our apartment and cooking well-balanced meals this past week can best be described as lacking. I am insufficient. That theme registered clearly as I thought through the ill-timed words of my classmate. I bet she had no idea what I was already dealing with on an emotional level.
As I look back on that brief exchange with a woman I barely know, I'm reminded of the moments I gaze out my sliding glass door and people watch. The men and women who stroll or sprint by, all have their own unique stories of pain, challenging circumstances, or emotional wounds. I'm sure they also have incredible joys and dreams that would amaze me or themselves, if expressed freely without fear of rejection or judgement. I bet these folks aren't all that different from me, in having their own personal battles and victories beneath the surface. Perhaps, like me, they are easily frustrated when an onlooker mistakenly threatens or judges them, without caring about who they really are. I guess to see clearly, I need another angle. Instead of looking down from my second story window, I should walk downstairs and go through the doors of the building, toward the sidewalk. There, and only there, can I meet these people where they're at and understand them from their perspective, not mine. That's the view I want. The view at the bus stop.
