Broke

Two days ago a woman with a young son approached me and Daniel in the Westgate parking lot.  She needed money for one more night at the Motel 6 before getting a spot at Alpha House.  I noticed that her neck was scraped raw and bloody.  "I'm broke, and I don't know what to do," she said, with tears welling.  "Mom, I'm hungry," said the young boy.  "I know, I know," she replied.  I gave them the six bucks I had, told her I wished it was more.  Yes, this could have been a routine for this woman.  I've still been haunted by it.  The sequence of their approach and our interaction intrudes and recurs like the pivotal moment of a meaningful dream.  Daniel was quiet for hours, too, after that.  Our symmetry with that mother and son didn't escape him, I believe.  There but for the grace of god.  It doesn't really matter whether her story is "true."  I am singled out by that moment in time, my reaction to her is real, it's unexpected, and it means something. 

So many have fallen by the wayside.  So many are talented and motivated and successful.  There's pity I feel for some, and there's envy of others.  Same energy.  I'll buy your sad story and hope you're not conning me.  I still devote myself to whom and what I love, but it's been hard to accept that I'm now a good 15 years beyond the cuteness and youth that once softened the edges of my mediocrity.  

I may take a healthy break from my aspirations.  This morning I asked myself what would happen if I didn't fill my spare time with inferior singing and so-so puzzle-making.  What would I find out?