morning muse

A few mornings ago, I went for a walk around my neighborhood. I like mornings the most in Allison Hill, and I think it’s because my favorite thing to say to strangers is “good morning”. [Sidenote: Can one legitimately have a favorite thing to say to strangers? If so, then mine’s “good morning”.] It’s innocent, implies the newness of the day, the potential for goodness. It can stand on its own, doesn’t require a reply. Most people aren’t drunk or high in the morning, so one doesn’t have to be as careful with a “good morning”. Everything is a little brighter and maybe more hopeful in the morning, not to mention the grandfatherly figures are out and about. I like mornings and greeting people during the mornings, ‘tis all.

I walked and good morninged and ended up at the mural--the beautiful one with beautiful words. I was sitting on one of the benches, having some silence, when I noticed two males, probably a little older than me, walking down the sidewalk in my direction. They were chatting loudly about something on the sidewalk and the shorter of the two bent down, picked up something living, and put it in the grass in front of the mural. I good morninged them and they told me about the baby mouse they found on the sidewalk. The one guy picked it up and brought it toward me so I could see the incredibly tiny, shivering thing that was a baby mouse in his hand. We made small talk about the mouse, I wondered out loud about it’s mama, and they wondered why I was sitting there. “I like this mural. And mornings.” They stood there for a few minutes, both looking at the mural, both admitting they forgot it existed. It’s a beautiful mural, we all agreed, and after some small talk about Allison Hill, soon they were on their way.

Now, you must understand, this is really nothing. Having pleasant interactions with strangers and sharing an appreciation for something beautiful with others is not uncommon for me. I couldn’t figure out what, exactly, tickled me about this particular incident. I was sitting, they were walking, and we all paused to see something cute and furry, then something inspirational and colorful. Why did it make me so happy?

I realized after these two strangers, neighbors probably, walked down the street, that this was the first positive interaction I have had with young males in my neighborhood. I was a stranger looking at a mural to them, not a female that would respond/not respond to catcalls, inappropriate comments, or unwanted attention. I wasn’t vulnerable in being by myself. I wasn’t crazy in being in this neighborhood. I wasn’t misunderstood or judged. I was just a stranger, a neighbor probably, who liked the mural. And they were two strangers, out for a morning walk, maybe with someplace to go, who were entertained by a furry mouse they almost stepped on. Friendly strangers, all of us. Sometime in that short and otherwise meaningless incident, I felt validated for being there and I felt respected, not because of what these males said, but because of what they didn’t say. Until this morning, I didn’t realize how wounded I had felt by men, in general, this summer on the hill. This insignificant interaction offered healing to this hurt...and a little freedom.

I didn’t make lifelong friends and I didn’t skip home. And this positive interaction certainly does not negate all of the many uncomfortable [not dangerous, not scary, not crazy, just uncomfortable] interactions I’ve had with strangers on the hill or shed light on how to better interact with other strangers in the future, but it gives me one more reason to believe in the exceptions--and encourages me to BE an exception--and to appreciate more deeply the chance to enjoy with strangers mornings and murals...and even a mouse.