The music fills the room and my soul. Silence is my best friend while I pray for the music to enter me. I wait for inspiration. Nothing. Silence. I keep waiting.
No words come to mind. I am blank. The heart is too full of hurt and regret to allow anything out to anyone. Time passes. The coffee cools. Outside, I see a few old couples power walking. Usually one is ahead of the other. What is it about doing things as a race? But that’s not true either. I know that’s my perception. My need to compete with anything. Always me. The “I” never lets go. Me. Me. Me.
I notice the old man. I have been seeing him for years. He is an old turbaned Indian, clean shaven, riding a bicycle. Slowly. Methodically. Sometimes he is a carrying a child but mostly he is alone, chugging along. I often wonder who he is, but really the main question I have for him is: Why the turban? I want to ask “Are you from a village” or “Are you a Sikh who does not believe in keeping the hair?” Where are you going, my friend? Do you realize you have become a staple in my life? A quiet one. Someone who seems to ride by me whenever I am struggling with who I am. You are a sign, but I just don’t know about what. I watch you slowly go by me, and I am tempted to run out and stop you and ask “who are you, my friend?” Yet, I know how crazy that is. s
So I sit here, watching you go by while the coffee has gone cold, and the words still seem to be eluding me. Silence. The music keeps playing…
- Interfaith appreciation – Sikhism (interactblogs.wordpress.com)
- Wearing a turban at school for the first time (americanturban.com)