to let the light flow through

Sometimes I wish I were transparent.

It's not that I don't wish to be in the world, nor that I don't cherish (sometimes too much) my egocentricities. But sometimes I think if I were only able to be fully open, and fully transparent, there'd be room for amazing things to flow through me.

A. came by today, thinner than when last I saw him. He was a big bear of a man a couple years ago, a guy into writing bad poetry and publishing it, making slightly obscene T shirts, and concocting and selling herbal remedies that were only slightly short of the olde timey snake oil peddler's wares. About two years ago he fell ill, with a growth on his neck. Yes, he saw doctors, and rejected what they told him. He made his own herbal remedies, he tried various fasts and faiths. A year ago he stopped talking, because it is too difficult for him now.

My old friend Red used to help A. out a lot. No, not materially, but with careful, sensitive words, and tender hands that rubbed pain from A.'s aching bones. When Red died, A. was one of the many--lost projects. I took on Red's cat; I increased my concern for some of the more fragile street folk, but--A. slipped through.

Partly because I always found him annoying. He would talk loudly, his poetry was bad, he was so full of himself. I often left P. to talk with him--braying male energy puts my teeth on edge.

A. wouldn't say he was dying, though of course we all are, and my suspicions of his quicker demise are pretty sharp. No, he insists--writing his notes down in an increasingly illegible hand--that he will survive, and thrive. I supply him with a lot of books these days--yeah, he buys them, but at a deep discount. Today, as I chatted with him (I chatted, he wrote), he wrote "wd u press fingers to back?"

I had him sit in the rose chair, told him my hands may not be very strong, and set about trying to relieve some of the pain in his spine and neck. I'm not a trained masseuse by any means, but I found myself thinking of transparency. Of letting something come through my soul, into my hands, to help this person I have mostly disliked. And, after all, it's not so much different than the massages I give my dogs and cats and kids. A.'s breathing got smoother, and some color returned to his face. For a moment, some ease. He left with my suggestion that he please see one of the local doctors, writing "but u--u r healer also, good one".

Yeah, I thanked him.

There's been a lot flowing through the bookstore today. In preparation for a memorial service tomorrow: bread from the cafe down the street, and slabs of cheese. For the needy, gallons of fresh milk. A bag of warm clothes for a family in distress at the trailer park. A lot of gossip, some good news, some sorrowful news. And the book seekers, hoping to stock up before the next storm, which is due to hit this evening.

I'm not quite certain why I keep feeling I must not hang on to any of this--the delights, the sorrows, the bits and pieces. To simply let it all come, and go, while I stay--transparent. As these windows overlooking the busy road.