I awaken with an uneasy feeling. Something’s missing–but what?
For a sixteen-year-old girl living on Central Park West in New York City, getting ready for another day in prep school, I have what the world calls privilege. So why do I feel incomplete? What am I missing?
“Nina, honey, are you ready for school?” Mom calls before walking out the door to head to work. She and Dad won’t be home until late. My twin brother and I will eat dinner with our housekeeper, Joyce.
“Yes, Mom.” I sigh. “Coming.”
We ride the elevator down without exchanging words. The doorman holds the golden door ajar, smiling in spite of bitter winds blowing in.
I climb aboard the school bus and sit alone. I observe this collection of teenagers of the elite and jot in my journal: ‘We’re mapping our way through an expensive education in the cultured yet competitive classrooms of a tree-lined campus.’
Some are quiet, while others play, fight, or giggle about who sits beside whom–which seems to be their only worry.
Gazing out on dismal scenes through winter’s gray window, I notice a group of homeless people. They gather on a Harlem street corner in slushy snow, trying to absorb meager warmth from flames they tease ablaze in frigid air inside their trashcan hearth.
How ironic that, in the suburbs, winter’s white brings wonder and delight. But in the city, many sections of snow are black from pollution. A good metaphor! I scribble in my notebook: ‘We hide behind a snow-blanket of comfort, veiling views of lines etched with grief and the despair of lives gone askew.’
One of the homeless is barefoot; seeing him shivering, my soul-bones shiver too.
A group huddles closer for warmth as we whizz by. My brow crinkles. At least they have each other. I write again in the notebook: ‘Shared-suffering binds people closer than even the bond of blood (that sometimes freezes in veins).
‘Most of my classmates are affluent, but does love surface through a full and busy life to be shared and cherished, or does it remain unconsciously hidden, like our collective well of pain?
‘We tend to be so concerned with trying to ‘become somebody’ that we neglect to be who we are.’
But who am I? Do my circumstances define me? Am I playing a role conditioned by culture? Am I myself when I am born but someone different over time, shaped by experience? Is there a Self that does not change?
***
When the bus pauses for a red light, I notice the sweetened face of a beggar. He is poised aloft a mailbox, happy on his throne.
How he glows! His eyes sparkle with mysterious knowledge as his calm strength towers over the street. His unique radiance chases away the iciness of the air –the chill of despair.
Grateful for the long stoplight, I continue enjoying his smiles at passers-by as if they were his dearest friends–the weight of their frowns lessen for him.
How does he do it? I cannot help but stare.
Biting cold and sorrow surround him yet his eyes beam smiles that dance like halos; one pirouettes toward me through the huge bus window (that few look through).
Does he have a secret inner lens blinding him to suffering? What about the freezing homeless trembling nearby? What about those even worse off than them? How can he be so blissful?
My intense moist gaze questions him: ‘Who are you?’
His shining eyes reply: “I am myself, same as you!”
That’s what I was missing! My Self.