A NARRATIVE
A Coffee Shop, a Stick Vacuum and a Zen Garden
What we can learn when we look and listen
After strolling with no sense of her whereabouts, the young woman decided to check her map.
Feeling anxious about not remembering the directions, she scanned the street opposite the lights, squinting into the sunlight as she searched for a familiar landmark. Drawing back, she used the shelter of shade behind the post to better view the façade of the coffee shop. It aroused a familiar memory, reminiscent of an old photograph, its sepia tone faded to crema.
The lights changed with the chime, and she found herself shifting within the surrounding throng of pedestrians, all moving with a purpose. Her bag swayed hard against her hip. It didn’t matter. She placed a steadying hand on the shoulder strap, enjoying a strong energy as her stride increased, and she smiled with the pleasure of feeling free, an integral element of her neighboring crowd.
Without intent, she congratulated herself on selecting sensible shoes this morning. There hadn’t been time to be sure how far she might walk before her meeting, the one documented in her diary. Her unconscious choice was a good one. The effect of a sensual, long skirt with sensible shoes was a quirky fashion twist she preferred. The shoes escaped the impression of being too masculine by her statement of substituting a wide ribbon for laces. The color matching the shoes, naturally. More practical than heels, and she could step safely.
Run, if she needed to run.
Aware of the admiring glances conveyed, she lengthened her stride, enjoying the rhythmic feel of the sheer skirt as it moved freely with each step, outlining her thighs, then her buttocks.
Disappointment arose as she reached the edge of the pavement, trod the rough pavers and slowed to a stop at the café entrance. Striding along with other people felt exciting, as if she was part of a protest, or a march of some sort.
Being and feeling important.
She looked around, tossing her head, then remembered. Not enough hair to add emphasis.
A momentary twinge of regret hit her at the memory of her recent self-hacking haircut. They always said she was rebellious, tossing her head and hair like a wild mare, defying those employed to tame, to teach.
Of course, they didn’t like what she’d done and reprimanded her.
The hairdresser did what she could. The upside, now she could wear pretty, visible earrings.
I really liked the feeling of flinging my hair around. I could be coy, tucking it around my ear, or stubborn, flipping it behind my shoulder. Never mind, it’ll grow.
Uncertain of what to do next, she remembered her map. Pulling out a chair at a vacant table with two used coffee cups, she settled herself and opened her bag.
A pedestrian with a fancy camera stopped next to her table and asked if he could take her photograph.
She smiled up at him, putting her bag aside and nodded. Posing for him with crossed legs and her hand folded near her face, she turned her head a little to show one earring. I think I still look pretty without my hair. With only a small smile, she faced his camera.
He checked the screen, thanked her then left. Initially, she felt a little taken aback as he didn’t try to talk to her or ask to sit, then she remembered her map as she ordered coffee and a croissant. Retrieving her map, she examined the street sign on the corner, trying to pinpoint how far she’d walked.
“What sort of things does he do that annoy you, honey?”
She turned her head a little. No, the question wasn’t to her. The woman at the next table was questioning her companion.
“Well, he vacuums, which really is a big help, as there’s a lot to do.”
“I wouldn’t get annoyed with him about doing that honey, because there’re a lot of husbands who would never vacuum.”
“I know, bless him, I really appreciate him doing it. But he won’t let any of us walk on the carpet afterward.”
“What? What do you mean? How do you manage?”
“Well, we manage to stay off it until we need to open a window or something. Watch TV, you know.”
The young woman sips her coffee, her map is forgotten as she listens to the conversation. Sounds like an excellent idea to me — it’ll keep the floor clean if no-one walks over it.
“How does it work when you have guests?”
“Well, we avoid the living room most times. We stay on the tiles in the kitchen area.”
“Sounds like it must be very awkward for you, honey.”
“Not really, I’m used to it now. And so are most of our guests. He has his ways.”
Silence for a few beats as they sip their coffees. The young woman tries to bite quietly into her croissant, her hearing attuned.
“I’m not sure I understand why he won’t let anyone walk on the carpet when he finishes. Is it just a pride thing?”
“Well, yes, it is in a way. He vacs like he’s mowing a sports ground. You know, in stripes, up one way then down the other way, and so on.”
“I see. The carpet has a bloom to it then, a shade pile. How often does he do this for you?”
“Well, I really don’t like to say that he does it for me, you know what I mean? The workload is shared in our home. He likes to vac while I do something else. I suppose he might do it two or three times a day.”
“Really, that often?”
She quickly finishes her croissant and her coffee as she listens. Sounds like a pretty carpet if it’s covered in flowers.
“Must be stick, then?”
She waits.
“Yeah, it is.”
Sounds like this guy should ‘get out more’ as they say. He could have a real garden of flowers to dig in and enjoy if he likes his flowery carpet so much.
She waits longer.
“You should get him a miniature Zen garden, honey.”
Ooh, what a marvelous idea. They’re always encouraging me with my painting — be creative, they say. I know a Zen garden will help someone who likes to comb the carpet with a stick. Just making lines in fine gravel, positioning the rocks carefully, and meditating helps stop the fear from creeping up on you. It helps the fulness mind thingy to get you to relax. Great idea.
I think I’ll go home and paint.