Yesterday I had lunch with an artist in a small, noisy Indonesian restaurant in LA. I sat with my back to the wall trying my hardest to not be distracted by an overwhelming flock of underwhelming, scantily clad females that walked through the single pane glass door. Not watching them made listening near impossible. If it hadn't been for a cup of coffee, I would have been a goner. Turns out, I have the attention span of a house fly. I digress.
As the artist spoke it was evident we weren't meeting to talk. Her voice rose above the haze of mindless cackling, rounded my ridged posture and sank heavily into my ears. She was beautiful and she wanted to dance. Unfortunately, it took me the majority of our conversation to realize this.
Once I caught on, however, it became rhythmic. As her words fused with angst, drive and honesty, I pushed back from the table I cleared the air for her grace. It was like feeding a bonfire that drizzled rain instead of smoke. All I had to do was stoke the flames and enjoy the shower. And so it went, our little dance in that little restaurant, me tossing inquisitive twigs to be consumed, rejoicing in the cooling mist it produced.
In my car on the way home my hands felt light against the steering wheel. I could breath deeply, assuredly and confidently. In this, I found peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment