I see her once in a while. A petite lady. She looks to be about 60. She wears the same gray coat, summer and winter. She walks along slowly on the side of the road, bending down every few minutes to pick something up. A cigarette? Loose change maybe. I always wonder where she lives when she's not out wandering.
I drove by one time and was close enough to look in her eyes. What I saw was haunting. She was gone, in that moment. I just saw a dark hollow where there once was a soul. It pierced me to the bone. For several months after that I felt a sense of dread when coming upon her. And often a feeling of guilt about driving by while averting my eyes.
Today, while out walking, I saw her figure in the distance. I knew if I stayed on course I would meet her. Thoughts of my son (the angel) were already in mind, and I imagined what he would do if he were here. I knew he wouldn't just walk by. Nor would he say or do anything phony. No false giving or patronizing. I knew what he would do. He would treat her like a human being.
[Reading the North: "Homestead Girl"]
I crossed the road, so I would be on her side when I passed by. She shuffled along, looking at the ground. I slowed my pace to a near stop, and pulled my energy in so as not to scare her. From my heart I said "Hello" and in my best village English asked "How you doing?" She hesitated at first and then turned toward me, letting herself be seen.
One cheek was puffed out with chew. She sized me up and then we started talking. I told her I noticed her walking, often, and that I liked to go out walking too. I asked what she was looking for on the road. "Oh … rocks." She said. And then she started talking about the running water in the ditch, from the snow melting. I wasn't sure if she didn't want to admit to scrounging around for valuables on the road or if she was, indeed, out rock hunting. It didn't matter. It wasn't my job to judge or to pull her away from her journey.
I told her about my son who used to hunt for rocks. She smiled and then looked in my eyes. I saw a light come out from hers, and felt it touch mine. "You enjoy the rest of your day!" I told her. "Happy Easter!" She said to me. We walked in opposite directions. Two human beings.
[Lesson from an Alaska steam room: In despair, we need someone to listen, to care]
Spring is the time for new life. A time for rising from the dead. I had been thinking on this very thing before I went out walking. I thought of the hard road for those born unwanted, unseen or considered unworthy. Maybe we all carry remnants of crucifixion within us. Some more than others, depending on circumstances. When I left my house I wanted to know how to resurrect that light inside, the one I felt had died.
We never help another by looking down on them. Or by giving out of a sense of duty. The only way to approach a shattered soul is with humility and honesty. It's so easy to look at another and think of how their choices got them to where they are. And there is truth to that. But, where did they start? And what did they encounter along the way? We truly can't know the journey of another unless we walk in their shoes.
I appreciate the spirit of my son, who walked with me today. It's a great shame for me, and a near unbearable pain, that he chose to leave his body. No one should ever feel that unwanted or insignificant, in the human family. But we live in a time that is not friendly to anything inconvenient. Everyone has to fit, and do it in a minute. It's not as much trouble as we might think, though, to look at another clearly, no matter how different or difficult they might seem. It's pretty simple, actually. That's what the lady with the gray coat, and my son, are teaching me.
Chantelle Pence is the author of "Homestead Girl: The View From Here." www.chantellepence.com. She divides her time between her Chistochina and Anchorage homes.
The views expressed here are the writer's and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, email commentary@alaskadispatch.com. Send submissions shorter than 200 words to letters@alaskadispatch.com.