Asher and I took a walk around town today. The weather cleared up just long enough for us to get out of the house and get some fresh air. It was also an opportunity to mess with our new camera and take some shots of some prominent places in town. So I bundled Asher up in his jacket, loaded him in the stroller and headed downtown. After pausing a few different times to snap some photos I ended up at the bluff overlooking the Willamette River. Our town has this old elevator that people use to make a quick trip from the lower part of downtown to the upper area. As I leaned against the railing looking out over the river I noticed a woman coming out of the elevator. I wouldn’t have taken a second look had I not noticed the walking stick she was carrying. Once she had my attention I noticed that her pants were a little dirty, her hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed in days and her skin almost hung on the frail frame of her body. She watched me take a few pictures and then walked up and stood right next to me looking out over the river as well. It’s funny, the bubble of comfort we all have. This woman walked right into my bubble and popped a squat and then looked at me and said “Whatcha doin?” I would have assumed that the camera made it obvious, but her question was more out of a desire for conversation than to get an answer. We talked a few minutes about great photo ops in town and then the conversation became more personal. 
The woman, whose name I never asked for and now wish I had, told me all of the places she’s lived, relationships she’s had, bad decisions she’s made, and things she hopes to do in the future. As the woman unraveled the scroll of her life in front of me I kept glancing at Asher to see what he was doing. Every I looked up he was just smiling at her, or reaching out his hand to her, or stringing together a jumble of baby jargon that he desperately wanted this woman to hear. She would stop now and then and just look at him, smile and then continue on with her stories. And then, in an instant she got up and walked away. I was a bit dumfounded, no good-bye. No have a nice day, just got to her feet and headed on down the path. But then midstride she stopped, turned around and said, thanks for the chat. I’ll look for you here again some time.
Why is it that we instinctively shy away from people that make us uncomfortable? I mean, I know it’s because they make us uncomfortable, but there must be something deeper. Is it because we don’t know how to respond to what they may throw at us? Is it because we feel they aren’t worthy of our time? I know I have brushed off a number of people in my lifetime that may simply have needed to have a conversation just so they could feel human again.
I think about Asher. He had no bubble to keep this woman at a distance. The ironic thing is that he didn’t have words to communicate with her, but he communicated so much more lovingly than I did. I responded to her with polite “Yeps” and “Uh huhs” but Asher wanted to touch her, to laugh with her and merely connect.I’ve been thinking a lot about my town lately. How most of us go about our day to day lives with those we are comfortable with and have built relationships with. Yet most of us don’t even know the names of the people in the houses next door. Maybe I’ll start looking for simple ways to connect. No deep conversations or community programs needed, just simple touches, laughs, and maybe some baby jargon to ease the tension.
