824. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.
Each day as I walk across the city I pass many, many homeless people. There are four that have caught my curiosity because I’ve come to believe that they are sentinels for the city. All four are otherworldly, calm and very still. Two are women and two are men. They keep watch. Each has a specific post; they are at their post no matter what time of day or night that I pass by. They are diligent in their guardianship.
To the east (facing west) is a woman. She sits very still beneath the marquee of the Cinerama. She sits upon her worldly possessions, arms wrapped around her knees, a slight smile that I read as contentment on her face. She wears sunglasses day and night. She watches. Occasionally, she rises to clean the sidewalk in front of her. She gathers food scraps and feeds the birds and then returns to her post.
In the south, on the far south side of the bricks of Pioneer Square, a man stands watch. He is directly beneath a tree, inconspicuous, texting. Each time I pass, regardless of the time of day, he is texting. His long graying beard parts in the middle flowing around his hands and phone. His communications are steady. He is not in a hurry. His eyes never rise from his phone. He stands his post sending records of his thought. I do not know what he sends into the world but I hope it is poetry inspired by the world that flows around him.
To the west is a man who sweeps the bridge to the ferry terminal. He sits on a crate next to a shopping cart filled with bags of his possessions. He holds vigil for commuters. I’ve passed him dozens of times and he’s never asked for change. He sits. He watches. When the walkway is littered, he stands, pulls his broom from the cart, and sweeps clean the walkway before returning to his crate. There is ease to his movement and clarity to his task. He holds vigil. He cleans.
To the north is the woman who lives in the covered bus stop. Her possessions occupy one half of the bench and she sits on the other half. She is plugged into music. She holds in both hands an old Walkman. I’ve never seen her without her ear buds in and her music playing. Sometimes she will rise and dance a slow dance of invocation. And then she returns to her bench and sits very still, watching and listening.
The east cares for the birds. The south scribes the flow of life. The west clears the way for the commuters. The north invokes the spirit. Each holds a special vigil unique and precious to the life of a city that considers them invisible. They are stillness in the mad rush of the city. Until I recognized them as sentinels I wanted more for them, whispering prayers of protection for them. Today I realized that they have what most of us lack: they are still. They are clear and carry no illusions about belonging. Their tasks are distinct and self-appointed. I suspect they whisper prayers of protection for us.
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The Direction of Intention 