The soul is an unseen entity. This is agreed upon by most of
the world’s cultures and religions. The existence of the soul is seldom debated
by any but the most nihilistic and disillusioned. There is wide disagreement as
to the purpose, meaning or state of souls but all who agree to recognize the
existence of such also agree that it is not an object that can be seen. Sarah Beckett believed otherwise. She
believed, with firmness and resolution, that she saw her soul routinely upon
entering the living room of her small Lower East Side apartment. Her soul, she
was convinced, hung on her living room wall, housed on a rectangle of canvas
stretched tight across a hardwood frame.
She had created this painting with its
abstract forms of hard-edged geometrics juxtaposed with amorphous amoeba shapes
rendered in brilliant and luminous tones of Sunny Orange, Parrish Blue and
Chili-Pepper Red accented with subtle
highlights of Jasmine Green and in the far distance of the left hand corner
just a small drop of Deepest Ebony. She
hadn’t been aware, in the 18 months it took to create this painting, that she
was daily releasing her soul into it. That realization came one day after it
had been hanging in her apartment for a week or so. She stepped into her living
room as a ray from the sun was breaking through her windows and washing the
painting with soft light. She stood transfixed at what she had created, unable
to continue her steps, unable to look away for fear that the moment might fade
and never return. As she stared at the
painting her breath stuck in her chest and refused to be released. She could
feel a warm wave of emotion rising within her , causing her eyes to tear. The
tears brought a new and beautiful perspective to the vision and as the colors
refracted through those tears she collapsed to the floor where she wept convulsive
sobs of gratitude and joy at the privilege of having created something of such
deep beauty and meaning. Since that day, she had regarded the painting as the
resting place of her souls, and at times, as her soul itself. She kept it
cleaned, faithfully dusting it gently every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and
was ever alert for signs that the sunlight might fade the colors or yellow the
canvas. It was, after all, her soul for which she was now caring.
This peculiar belief concerning her soul was not the only oddness afflicting
Sarah Beckett. She had never been able to find a place for her peculiar colors
amongst the oriental carpet patterns of any society so she retreated to the
fringes and chose to bury herself in their thick, taupe threads. Her colors
didn’t fit there either but at least she wasn’t disrupting the pattern and the
fringes were thick enough to hide her obtrusiveness. She had barely escaped
high school society with her mind intact, college was simply a four year repeat
of the same with occasional stops at an oasis which might seem welcoming at
first but always later revealed a pattern to which she was expected to add.
Which was the more painful experience, she had often wondered, to face
rejection beyond all hope to or allow yourself to believe that you had finally
found your spot only to be rejected again later?
After College,wearied by both
experiences, and certain of their continuance if she stayed in her backward
hometown, she set of for New York City with the hope of making a living as an
artist. At that time, she had thought how providential and fortuitous her lack
of friends had become. No one had ever asked her to go to a movie or bowling or
ice skating or a prom or anything else. As such, she had saved every scrap of
money she had made since she began doing odd jobs at the 12. She had never
spent money on a prom gown or a fancy hair-do. She had even made the decision
to avoid make-up both for purposes of both frugality and anonymity. And so, she
set off for Manhattan with her mother’s blessing and prayers, a healthy bank
account, a surging sense of relief at having escaped the suffocating bonds of
small town life and, fairly unknown to her, a storehouse of scars and pain that
would be traveling ahead, prepared to meet her wherever she landed.
Sarah Beckett had arrived in New York City roughly 18months
ago with plans of becoming a vocational artist. In that time, she had learned
to navigate the subway system without a second thought. She had learned the
locations of the closest and least expensive art supply stores, the bakeries
that sold the largest and moistest blueberry muffins. She had also learned that
artists of talent and skill are as common in Manhattan as pick-up trucks were
in her hometown. She had secured her apartment before leaving home by using an
internet service and was pleasantly surprised that the apartment had been even
better in both size and location than she had imagined it would be. It was,
nonetheless, very pricey. The savings with which she had left home dwindled
rapidly in the first 12 months of her occupancy. At that point she found it
necessary to find a job. She looked in the art field and even had a few
promising interviews but always, she found herself suffering from her choice to
pursue a Fine Art degree rather than a Graphic or Design degree. She considered
her knowledge and passion for art and artists to make her a perfect fit for a
docent position at the Metropolitan but she was not hired. She believed she was
passed over because her plain looks and rural-American demeanor made her
unremarkable compared to the cultured and exotically beautiful applicants from
foreign countries and larger cities. After
several of weeks of job seeking with no results, she decided to lower her
expectations. She found a job as a counter girl at a bread shop on the Upper
East Side, an easy train ride from her apartment. It certainly wasn’t the kind
of job you brag about to the people at home but bragging had never held much
appeal for her. It was 40 hours a week
that helped to keep some money in her bank account and kept her close to the
museums that housed the art which nourished her spirit and her dreams.
She would arrive each morning at 5AM. The bakery’s owner, Mr Boulanger, had
been working since 3AM mixing the dough and proofing the bread, readying it for
baking. She learned how to use the long handled wooden peel to place the risen
loaves in the large flat bottomed oven. With some effort , she learned to
deftly remove the baked loaves using the same tool and place them in the
softening cabinet. Every morning by
5:30AM the air in the store was thick with the warm, yeasty smell of baking
bread and rolls. She relished the 30 minutes between the moment the bread began
to bake and the moment the front door opened to customers. It was quiet, warm
and beautiful, a tiny sanctuary of coziness in a city of millions. At 6AM, the
door would be unlocked and in just a few minutes the store would fill with its
first customers of the day, typically the commercial customers buying in
quantity for restaurants and cafes. Their orders would be in the process of
being bagged by Mr Boulanger and placed on the big multi shelved carts that
separated the counter from the baking area. It took only a few weeks for Sarah
to begin to recognize each customer by sight. She began addressing them by the
names of their respective establishments. “Good morning Bruno’s” she would say
to the man with the long red coat who picked up the loaves for Bruno’s Café, or
“How are you today, Trattoria?” she would inquire of the man with the sloppy
jeans who came after the rolls for Trattoria D’Ile. They seldom responded with
anything more than curt smile and that was suited her quite well. It allowed
her the opportunity to appear friendly without having to endure the
excruciating uncertainty of actual conversation. The rush for commercial orders
would abate by 7AM and then the commuters would begin to flood in. These
customers wanted single loaves or single rolls. Many were regulars, either
daily or several times per week, Sarah also began to memorize their orders and
was often able to have their selection ready before they approached the
counter. She would greet them with a warm, if distant, smile and quickly send
them on their way with their choice of bread.
These were her mornings for many months. She had walked unknowingly into
the numbing and insulating comfort of routine in the midst of a city renowned
for its chaos and tumult.
Around 2PM each day, she would leave the bakery with a loaf
or bag of rolls that had remained unsold for the day. She knew that after she
left, Mr. Boulanger would dispose of the unsold bread, taking it to dumpster
behind the building. She had often wondered to herself why he threw away all
the unsold bread instead of giving it to a shelter or food pantry. One
afternoon, with no prompting from her, he offered a story. He had begun to prepare the unsold bread for
disposal a little earlier than normal. As she watched him stuffing the bread
into garbage bags he said, “I know you’re wondering why we throw it away every
day, Am I right? Am I right?” She was uncertain how to respond without
offending him so she just gave a shy, and, she hoped, meaningless, smile of
assent. “Can’t take a chance with my family’s future”, he continued as he
stuffed loaves and rolls into bags, “Know a baker in Jersey who used to give
all his leftovers to one of them homeless places. Turn out that one day a
little set-screw had gotten loose and fallen off his dough mixer right into a
loaf. Baked it right in. Some bum at the shelter gets the loaf with the screw,
bites into it and cracks a tooth. Bum sues the baker and the guy ends up having
to sell everything he had to pay off the bum and the lawyers. Had a nice house,
nice car and now his family’s in a little flat and taking the train. Lost
everything. Works at a casino now serving drinks for a couple bucks an hour and
tips. Can’t take that kind of chance with my family’s future, so into the
dumpster it goes. The bums find it there anyway. Bet there’s two or three of
them out there waiting right now.” Sarah
nodded at Mr. Boulanger as sign of understanding and hoped he didn’t notice the
hot red blush that she could feel rising in her face. She was surprised and
slightly ashamed at her own lack of understanding of the complexities of such
things and embarrassed that she had, silently, judged him as being either
clueless or selfish. It had seemed so simple to her. People need bread, you
have bread you don’t want, give it to the people who need it. She had no idea
that a seemingly simple act of kindness could be so risky and dangerous.
Many afternoons, she would leave work
and head downtown with her bread in hand stopping at the Green Market on
Chambers Street near the Tweed Courthouse to pick up some sharp cheddar cheese
and fresh cucumbers. Between the bread, cheese and cucumbers, she would be set
for dinners for a week. She was not a consciously healthy eater. She just had
simple tastes and frugal leanings. She would occasionally augment her diet with
a cherished Blueberry muffin. She kept the muffin splurging to a minimum since
they were $5.75 each. Often times, those splurges would occur on Tuesday
afternoons. Tuesdays were the day she
made herself haul her art portfolio to almost any gallery who’s owner would
agree to view it. In the course of 18 months of this exercise, she had received
little in the way of encouragement and quite a bit in the way of brutal disparagement.
Her work had been referred to as “naïve… and not in a good way”, “immature”,
“not yet fully realized”, “stunningly derivative” and perhaps worst of all
“cute”. She would hold her composure
through the Gallery owners’ critiques only by focusing on the promise of a
fresh blueberry muffin when it was over. She would then leave the gallery and
head to the subway, all the time chastising herself silently for not focusing
on paintings smaller than 20x16, at least they would have been easier to schlep
from gallery to gallery. She would take the subway south to 4th St and
rush to her favorite muffin shop. As she approached the counter each Tuesday
the chatty girl with the vintage style cat’s eye glasses would see her coming
and reach automatically for a blueberry muffin and bag in which to place it.
“Here ya go Sweetie, $5.75 but you already know that.” Sarah wondered how this
girl could remember HER out of the countless number of people she must serve on
a daily, let alone weekly, basis. It never occurred to Sarah that she was a
singularly unique figure with her 3’ by 3’ black vinyl portfolio carried over
her shoulder by its strap, the tan and plaid LL Bean barn coat that kept the
wind and cold at bay but was less impressive at blending in with NYC style and
eyes swollen and red , not from crying but from the exertion of suppressing
tears. “I tell ya, if I didn’t know what
day it was, and between you and me sometimes I really don’t, I’d always be able
to tell it was Tuesday the minute you walk through that door.” Sarah struggled for a polite response “thank
you” seemed inappropriate and unwarranted, “wow” also seemed an ill fit for the
moment. Feeling poorly prepared for
conversation, Sarah simply managed an “okay”. She winced the minute she heard
the sound come out her mouth. She had intended it to be a sound that said “I
hear you and acknowledge what you’ve said” instead it sounded more like “
Okaaaaay - Whatever YOU’RE about!” The chatty girl defended herself “Well, I
didn’t mean nothin’ by it, just that you’re pretty regular here”. “I’m sorry” offered Sarah as the girl handed
her the change from a $10 bill. “I just…” her voice trailed off as she realized
that any defense of her response would take longer than the moment allowed she
simply repeated, “I’m sorry. See you next Tuesday?” The counter girl replied with a mimicking and
exaggeratedly sarcastic “Okaaay!”
In the time it took Sarah to walk the
several blocks to her apartment, she had already worked into a thorough and pummeling
self-chastisement over the incident in the muffin shop. She had only meant to
criticize herself for her innate awkwardness and lack of preparation in not
having a standard, all-purpose response readied for such situations. However,
the chastisement had gained such momentum by that point that her mind pushed
onward to negative criticisms of everything from her choice of hairstyle to her
inability to speak up when her 8th grade English teacher had asked
students to choose a book for a book report (Melissa Candler had quickly raised
her hand and chosen “Bridge to Teribithia, the book Sarah had wanted to do, she
instead got stuck with “Lord of The Flies”, Melissa Candler would have had a
perfectly appropriate and charming response to the muffin girl and which would
probably have resulted in becoming BFFs with the muffin girl and receiving free
muffins for life). By the time she had climbed the stairs, unlocked the door to
her apartment and fought her portfolio over the threshold, Sarah was exhausted.
Even the critical voice in her head seemed to have needed to take a breather.
She plopped the folio down in the nearest corner and plopped herself into her
desk chair, coat and all. She turned on her computer and opened her email.
Seeing that she had received nothing of importance, she began the task of
messaging her mother to recap the events of her latest attempt to woo a gallery
into showing her paintings. She had crafted many, many of these emails. She was
quite good at them now. They always read (with minor variations to lend some
authenticity) something like this..
Dearest Mother –
Trusting that all is well at home. I took my paintings to
another gallery today. The owner really liked my paintings (it was a little
embarrassing, the way he gushed over them) but said they weren’t quite the
right fit for his clientele. He did give me the name of another gallery to try.
I’ll call them this week and see if I can get an appointment for next Tuesday. All else is well here, I’m warm, well fed and
happy. I’ll call on Sunday Afternoon.
Love you-
Sarah
The utter deceit of the email further shriveled
her already crumpled heart. She left the desk and headed for the comfort of the
futon in her living room. She grabbed her well-worn wool afghan and wrapped it
tightly around her body as if its tightness might somehow bind up her
splintered spirit. She settled firmly into the corner of the mattress/cushion
and drew her knees up to her chest, under the afghan. She stared into the
rapidly increasing darkness of her living room, focused on nothing. The
criticisms in her head were once again beginning to pick up steam, a train of
negativity, just leaving the station. Lumbering and sluggish at first but
carrying within itself the assurance of both speed and power once it had the
opportunity to gain momentum. She didn’t try to battle against her thoughts,
choosing instead to prepare herself for the inevitability of an evening spent
in well-earned self-loathing and the promise of a long cry that might be
exhausting enough to prove cathartic. She even considered enabling her mood by
getting up and starting a station on Pandora, she had one that played a mix of
the saddest ballads by Taylor Swift, Christina Perri, and a heavy dose of Sarah
McLachlan, each song bearing the common thread of feelings of loneliness,
inadequacy and weariness at being misunderstood or unappreciated. Even the
contemplation of the fact that she had created a station glorifying pathos
shamed her and amplified her feelings of weakness.
She was heavily involved in the needless
anxiety of deciding whether or not to move off the futon when flashing colored
light began to break through her windows followed quickly by the dull thump of
a dance-beat bass line. Sarah realized it must be 8PM, the time when the night
club across the street bounced to life. Sarah wondered what kind of people
would be frequenting a night club on Tuesday evening. “What would it be like to
have friends who are so anxious to hang out with you and have fun that they
can’t wait until the weekend?” she wondered.
That thought alone began to crack open the door that was holding back
her tears and her eyes started to sting at their presence. She blinked a time
or two and tried focusing her gaze on the inside of her room. The flashing neon
sign from the nightclub caused her sparse furnishings to become partially
visible in the darkness. The second hand on the oversized clock on the wall
appeared to jump forward 5 seconds at a time as the room would go dark between
flashes. The burlap lamp shade on her thrift shop lamp would appear with the
bursts of colored light and disappear when they faded only to reappear in a
different color with the next burst. The presence of the subdued but audible
thumping of the bass and drum track from the music in the club gave the whole
scene a surreal “Alice in Boogie Wonderland” atmosphere. She looked toward the
painting on her wall, wondering if the light would reach that far or if her
“soul” would remain shrouded in darkness.
She tilted her head sideways and
rubbed her eyes to make certain that what she was seeing was reality and not
merely an hallucination brought about by her depleted emotional state. As the
light pulsed on the painting it appeared to be dancing. The colored light that
the neon sign brought into the room caused the colors and shapes of the
painting to appear to sway, spin and jump on the canvas in time to the rhythm
of the music coming from across the street.
Her soul was dancing. She felt a crushing sense of betrayal at the sight
of it. How could her soul dance when she felt so alone and hopeless? How was it
possible for her soul to dance when she had never experienced such a thing. She
hadn’t had any real friends as a young girl. So, while she had heard tales of
girls getting together in one another’s bedrooms and dancing crazily to music from
their favorite boy-bands, she had never known that moment. She had never
attended a school dance or even a wedding reception with dancing. She had no
idea what the inside of a dance club might look like. Was her own soul mocking
her for her lack of experiences like so many high school and college girls had?
She pulled the afghan over her face to shield her eyes from the sight and yet,
she couldn’t stop herself from peeking out to catch glimpses of the colorful
show. Her mind began to race, searching for some justification for what she was
seeing. She knew that it was merely the reaction of certain colors to the light
being shed upon them but she also sensed that there was something more profound
at work here. Maybe her was soul trying to tell her something? A thought came
to her, what if, under the jumble of sadness and inadequacy and anxiety she
wore, there was a dancing soul inside her that just couldn’t wait for a weekend
(any weekend) to have fun? Maybe her soul wasn’t mocking her so much as
advising her? Being guided by light flashing on a painting seemed, to her, as
valid as sobbing alone in her apartment because of one misspoken response to a
muffin girl.
She pulled the afghan down from her face and stared intently at
the painting. She observed how the colors moved and pulsed in time to the beat.
It was good to have something other than her debilitating emotion on which to
focus. She haltingly began to allow her head to bop back and forth to the beat
coming in her windows. Her shoulders followed suit and soon her entire upper
body was synching with the rhythm. She
stopped all movement, freezing for just a moment then with effort and purpose,
she stood up, unwrapped herself from the afghan and pulled her futon’s mattress
onto the floor. She stood on the mattress, eyes fixed on the painting. Slowly,
with all the gracelessness of a faun trying to stand for the first time, she
began to move her feet and arms to the beat of the lights, bass and drums. Had
anyone been present, they would have been unable to keep themselves from
laughing. Thankfully, she was alone. She persisted in her endeavor and soon
found herself able to move in perfect rhythm to the flashes and thumps and even
able to accent the off beats with a head toss or fist pump. She was thankful
that she had thought to put the mattress on the floor so she had little worry
of her steps causing noise to the residents of the apartment below hers. She
kept gazing at the painting it seemed to nod in assent toward her and she, in
return gave back a nod which meant “I think I understand what you’re
saying”. Together they swayed and moved
and stepped to the techno beat of the music filling the street below and
seeping through her windows. She continued this dance with her soul for an hour
or more when there was a momentary break in the beat. Sarah took this as a cue to call it a night.
She was winded and weary from this type of exertion to which she was
unaccustomed. She positioned the mattress back on the futon frame and her
pillow back on the mattress. She set the alarm on her phone for 4AM and, for
the first time since she had moved into this apartment, did not pull down the
room-darkening shades on her windows. She fell into bed, clothes and all and
pulled the afghan to her chin. She laid her head on the pillow and recalled
that earlier, she had expected to fall asleep in a pile of used tissues on a
pillow damp from tears. Instead, that night, she fell asleep watching her soul
dance.
