Special in Ordinary

By Sarah Payle

The table that I am about sit down at is covered in crumbs. The cleaning girl is wiping down tables behind me so I smile at her - a tiny dark-haired girl - and ask, "Can I get this wiped?" She walks over with a lazy stride and wipes down the table, not looking at me and not smiling. "Thank you!", I say, trying to stay bright. She ignores me and continues pushing her cart forward, the wheels rumbling on the tiled floors and letting out a high pitched squeak with each turn. I stand and watch after her, and see myself three months ago, in a dead end job, yearning for creative freedom. Now I have that life I yearned for and I feel liberated, but scared at the same time. I feel like I am walking on thin ice, afraid that each step might be the one to crack through, plummeting me to the icy water below. Chasing a long buried dream is kind of like that, I think as I sit down at the now-cleaned table. You don't know if it will be a grand success and you'll get that new apartment downtown you always wanted, or if the ice will smash below your tentative step, sending you to the icy depths. All you can do is keep trying, keep striving, keep dreaming; keep walking with faith that the ice will hold the weight of your hopes.

I sit down with my coffee, just in time for a stretch of winter sunlight to fall across the false wooden top of the table. I notice the shadow play of my coffee cup, and the crisscross designs they make on the gravely cement on the patio outside. Although the cafeteria is nearly empty, I find it blaring loud today, each noise amplified ten times - the slap slap of a child's runners on tile, the rurring of the cleaning carts wheels, the hum of conversation in a far corner. I feel tired this morning, exhausted, up all night creating. And yet, I still feel the burning in me to keep pushing myself, to draw, write, create something - anything! Behind me I hear the clinking of ice cubes being poured into a glass at the Chinese kiosk, and I am surprised my hearing is sensitive enough to hear something so far away. Since following this artistic journey, I have begun to notice little things now, like the chip in the wooden tabletop, and the way the steam from the take-out cup curls upward, and the clinking of ice cubes. I sip my coffee, trying to ignore the heightened noise and images around me. Today I crave solitude and quiet, a walk along a deserted winter beach at Dallas road, with just the sounds of waves and seagulls. I have poured out steadily from my heart for the last three days, in writing, poetry and art, in a manic need to express myself, and now I feel empty, hollow, an intense need to bring something back into my heart to nourish its fragile growth so that it does not burn out and becoming parched earth.

I rub my tired eyes and glance up at the scene around me, wondering how I ended up in the life I now live. How did I go from that punk, skull-wearing, smart-alec kid from Matsqui writing poetry of anger and drawing images of broken and bruised hearts, to this, this argyle sweater-wearing adult with a  gallery showing at Serious Coffee, and a column that may be shown in a real newspaper. When did I step through the looking-glass and meet the reflection that I never thought I'd be able to touch?

As I ponder this, I sip my coffee and watch the empty cafeteria. The recent memory of the day with the baby niece comes back to me, and how holding her small sleeping body taught me that each moment is precious, never to be repeated again, and you must embrace life  in all its nuances, and see the specialness of each moment because it will never be repeated again. Suddenly the noise around me is no longer grating but comforting, for it is the sound of life, the sound of everyone's collective hopes and dreaming clashing together, and I am one of them, walking a road that my foot finally fits on. I listen to the sounds with interest now and look at the sights around me, extraordinary in the ordinariness; like the bright orange neon lights of the Orange Julius sign, the shadow thrown by my paper coffee cup, the smell of Chinese food wafting from behind  me. And I stop thinking about the column that needs to be updated, or the half-finished artwork at home. I stop, and I look and see only this one this one day, this one, this one moment. I breathe in, I breathe out. I live. One special moment at a time.