A Poem

A homeless man wrote me a poem, based on my name. The writing is somewhat illegible (he was writing on a torn sheet of paper using his hand as a writing surface) so here's what I can make out:

Mountain of dream falters in an
Embrace to the cosmic green grass of turtles in these
Glad moments to reach a faster price from an open sky that leaves not the flowers are out in a garden of stone

I had been walk-jogging to get to an appointment, my headphones in my ears, when he stopped me. Or rather, when he said something to me and I made the choice not to ignore him but to stop. I was only planning on giving him a moment to spare-change me, and I wasn't really planning on giving him anything. I didn't even turn off my iPod, I just took the earbud out of my left ear and said "What?" and he said something about 30 seconds and I told him I was running late and didn't have time and he said something about 30 seconds again and then there was a piece of paper in his hand and a pen in the other and he was looking at me, waiting, and I was confused and said "What?" again and he said "Your name, what's your name?" and I said "Meg, M-E-G" and he began to draw my name, at which point I realized that he was a real person who was really talking to me, and I could either walk away, or I could listen. I decided to invest myself in this moment. I mean, I stopped for this man without even turning off my music, why did I bother to stop if I had no intention of listening to him?

How often do I find myself speaking of the sad state of our world, where everyone is so glued to their media machines that they rarely allow themselves to experience a moment in its fullness? And here I was, standing in front of a homeless man without listening to him speak to me. Why did I stop? But I did stop. And after a few moments, I even listened. And then, here was a man writing a poem for me on the side of a road. I admit, I felt annoyed at myself for stopping, because I was running late and I pass homeless people every single day without stopping so why did I stop for this guy right now? I don't know why I stopped. But I'm glad I did. Because for a few minutes, I got to experience life as it was happening. I got to see a man, who has clearly been on the streets for some time, but who clearly had a life before the streets, I got to see this man write a stream-of-consciousness flow, and I got to see this man as A Man, not as Someone to Avoid, not as Another Sad Story. I got to connect with another human being in a very immediate way. And we humans, we humans are connecting less and less with one another, we humans are texting and IMing and Tweeting one another, rather than talking and listening and BEING with one another. We human beings aren't so good at being together. We go to dinner with a group of friends and then update our facebook statuses to let everyone know that we are at dinner with a group of friends. Why not just BE at that dinner? It's like we're always afraid of missing something, always concerned that if we don't answer that text or email or IM right this very moment, we will lose something that we will never get back. Everything must happen NOW, which means that in the now, we aren't very present.

I have many thoughts about the state of interpersonal communication in our 21st century world, but I'll not dive into that any further here.

The other night, a homeless man wrote me a poem. I do not claim that he wrote me a poem of great literary worth, I do not claim to even understand what it means, in a literary sense. The poem serves more as a reminder of how many surprises Life has for us, if we just take the time to experience Life as it happens. I stood on a street corner as a stranger wrote me a poem. After he finished it, I asked him to read it aloud to me. When he was done, he looked at me and said, "That's deep." And I agree. Connecting with a stranger, that's deep. Recognizing that first impressions are only impressions and not fact, that's deep. Making eye contact and sharing language, that's deep. When he handed over my poem, he smiled. And I asked him if this corner was a regular spot for him. He said he walks this avenue every day. I said I'd keep my eyes open for him. He said we should get a drink. I told him I don't drink. He said we could just drink water. I told him I hoped to see him again. And he said, "I think you really mean that." And I did. I do. That homeless man, that stranger, has made an impression on me. And it's only because I made a choice not to ignore him.

I only wish I had asked his name.