the gift of strangers

listening to a juliard pianist on sunday, i was sitting in the front row (it was quite a dilemma for me, i couldn't see out the windows if i sat in the back--though that is where i prefer to sit. the view demanded i sit up front).

i had my head down most of the time writing, a lap desk with my journal splayed open, a roethke poetry book, the program. at intermission, a lady walks up and says

are you an artist?

i'm a poet.

looking up with a smile at being asked the very question i ask others.

your presence is amazing. i could tell. do you have any poetry with you?

as you know, i always do, but i happened to have copies of three poems i was going to give to the pianist who invited me to the concert.

here, read these if you'd like.

really?

she said, and took her reading glasses out, slipped them on and sat in the seat beside me.

you have a strong voice.

she said.

i've fought hard for that voice.

good,

she said. then asked me to read her a poem.

now? are you serious?

yes,

she said.

so i did. read it outloud right there in the front row during intermission.

do you have a poetry book? i'd like to buy one.

i'm not published yet. i'm on the cusp though.

good, where can i hear you read?

i gave her my information and where to hear me as i host a poetry roundtable in a nearby town.

she told me she writes poetry, too.

send me some of yours,

i said.

i'd love to read it.

it was a pleasure meeting you.

she said, and shook my hand.

likewise.

the gift of strangers is this, they don't know squat about the bad week you've had. they don't care. they don't know if they are grasping at straws, though the way i dress, it ain't hard to peg me as an artist. but the woman was genuine and i needed to hear it. i needed to be reminded that i have a calling and purpose. that my gifting may not be for the church. or even for my friends. but for strangers.

and i must find a way to get my works to them. to let my voice be heard.