It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I have taken up residence inside a Starbucks coffeehouse, on the busy corner of Princess and Wellington Street, in downtown Kingston. I drove out here early this morning to meet a client, but our photo session is not for a few more hours.
It is a gloriously sunny day, and beautiful things are ahead.
I am sitting here by the window, facing the street, alone. Enjoying my second cup of coffee.
I can’t say that I enjoy the taste of coffee, I just really enjoy the ritual and the peace that comes with it.
I am listening to the loud hustle and bustle intensifying itself like a crescendo within these interior walls, and looking out the dirty window, watching people, as they stride along.
Across the street is a Toronto Dominion Bank.
It is imposing. Bulky. And somewhat brickly and very bright green.
(Yes, I understand that ‘brickly’ is not a word).
Directly in front of my window, no more than ten feet away, on a manhole cover, sits a thin man in a wheelchair. He looks to be in his forties, but could very much be younger or older for all I know. He is wearing a short sleeve green t-shirt, and well-worn, undersized track pants, which help to hide his amputated legs.
There is an umbrella, tucked on the right side of his blue wheelchair, and on the other side, a black bag with a zipper.
His head is down.
His head is almost always down.
He has neatly styled gray hairs, visibly protruding beneath his orange, New York Islanders baseball cap.
Under his chin there is a glass jar, and a sign that reads, “Could you help out with a bit of spare change to pay food and bills. Thanks”.
Everyone is ignoring him. Nobody sees him.
Except for a little girl in a stroller who took a moment to glace up, as she was being pushed by her father on her way home.
There is a cellphone resting on his left thigh, but he rarely looks at it, as if there was one that really needed to know what and how he was doing.
I am not sure why I am writing about this man, at this particular moment in time, except that I find the whole experience very moving.
I am learning by sitting here that everything, every single thing, is a complex network, with its own rules, rhythm, and pattern
These networks are everywhere and seem Invisible, unless you stop and take the time to look.
This man was not here when I first arrived. Another man occupied his spot. He left when his friend arrived. He seemed to be holding the spot for him.
A little while ago, a woman in a wheelchair, with a lap dog, pulled up next to him, and exchanged pleasantries. The dog seemed to know him, because it tried desperately to lick his face, without success. The owner kept restraining his insistent devotion.
As I sit here, I wonder why he is here.
I wonder what happened to him. Who he is. Who he knows. What he dreams about. If he still dreams. I also wonder what he does when he is not sitting on this busy little corner of this beautiful city.
It is amazing that even the homeless organize themselves and look after each other, when no one else will.
What about our lives? Who is part of our network? What network do we serve?
Who are our true friends? What do they do for us and we in turn for them?
How many insignificant little things that make our lives meaningful would suddenly be missed, if they were to suddenly disappear?
What corner do we sit at?
In a sense, going to the job you hate this morning, and waiting for the weekend, is no different than this beautiful man, who sits here on the manhole cover.
We are human beings.
Beautiful people.
Every single one of us.
Beauty that cannot be standardised, measured, or explained.
How much do we see? How much do we want to see?
It is amazing what you can discover, when you simply slow down, let go, and observe.
Things become less brickly.
