Today as we approached Main Street in East Vancouver, a man got on the bus and sat down at the front, smilingly and gently apologetic when asking for a seat next to a woman in a brilliant colored silk jacket.
He was middle-aged, a slight paunch and I immediately thought poet or artist or professor. He was good-looking with longish honey-colored hair and he wore a camel v-necked sweater over a black t-shirt. He carried a leather satchel that he held on his lap.
His face was unlined and it riveted me, I couldn't take my eyes off him, and a premonition struck me that I could not shake, that he was not of this realm. At all. There was something in his demeanor that set him apart.
His gaze drifted towards me right away. I looked away and out the window, at the sad travesty of life on the streets: barely functioning Beings slowly awakening from the trance of the previous night. I watch one man of an indeterminate age, leather jacket and filthy blue jeans, long hair and beard, leaning against a wall and staring transfixed at the sidewalk, a frozen caricature of abject misery, another man wrapped in a soiled white sheet, all in a tent city of despair in the midst of the one of the most affluent cities on Earth.
I looked at the man at the front of the bus. He was chewing his lips and looking at the same scene. And then his gaze would drift back to me. As I watched the misery outside the window, I could feel this man watching me.
When I turned to look at him once more, he was gazing out at the travesty of the streets and suddenly I felt a burst of pain and incredible sadness come over me, and I wanted to cry. It was terrible sadness co-mingled with great compassion as his gaze fell upon them.
This great depth of feeling was coming from him. I was channeling this man's grief for these people as though it were my own, and it was so deep that I wanted to cry forever.
He was middle-aged, a slight paunch and I immediately thought poet or artist or professor. He was good-looking with longish honey-colored hair and he wore a camel v-necked sweater over a black t-shirt. He carried a leather satchel that he held on his lap.
His face was unlined and it riveted me, I couldn't take my eyes off him, and a premonition struck me that I could not shake, that he was not of this realm. At all. There was something in his demeanor that set him apart.
His gaze drifted towards me right away. I looked away and out the window, at the sad travesty of life on the streets: barely functioning Beings slowly awakening from the trance of the previous night. I watch one man of an indeterminate age, leather jacket and filthy blue jeans, long hair and beard, leaning against a wall and staring transfixed at the sidewalk, a frozen caricature of abject misery, another man wrapped in a soiled white sheet, all in a tent city of despair in the midst of the one of the most affluent cities on Earth.
I looked at the man at the front of the bus. He was chewing his lips and looking at the same scene. And then his gaze would drift back to me. As I watched the misery outside the window, I could feel this man watching me.
When I turned to look at him once more, he was gazing out at the travesty of the streets and suddenly I felt a burst of pain and incredible sadness come over me, and I wanted to cry. It was terrible sadness co-mingled with great compassion as his gaze fell upon them.
This great depth of feeling was coming from him. I was channeling this man's grief for these people as though it were my own, and it was so deep that I wanted to cry forever.