Yesterday I sat on a bus stop bench in South Pasadena, pulled out my notebook and wrote, just wrote – captured the moment, the scents, the scene the rightness of my response to the tug of history I didn’t know and most likely will never know.
I wrote in South Pasadena on a bench I had never seen before pouring out words that will most likely never be read.
I looked behind me and noticed a wild, free form arrangement of purple and yellow star shaped flowers I later learned were lantana. I pushed my face into the flowers, breathing them in, slightly aware the people driving past wondered what this more-than-a-little-chubby-middle-aged-woman was doing and why was she so happy?
“Another off-the-course-of-reality” homeless person,” one of them might think.
I thought about my Granny, a long-time resident of South Pasadena whose one-time 
home would now be on the market for several million dollars if it was to sell.
I got in my car and responded to a call in what might be called the downtown section of her town where a metro train station now lives and a skateboarder named Brian waited for me to take him to North Hollywood.
I taught him the word “Country bumpkin.” He reminded me anyone you meet may be a writer, a poet, a person with a story to tell. I reminded him even older ladies you meet in Pasadena once skateboarded at the beach.
We are all connected, after all, there are no accidents – only synchronicity – and if we keep our hearts and eyes open, we will notice miracles awaiting our embrace day after day after day after day.
There doesn’t have to be a moral to the story, there is only and always and most importantly your story. Write it. Share it. Connect with others through it. Bring the world closer in the process. Feel happier. Smile more.
Isn’t that truly what we’re all after?
Here’s my blissful day in a snippet-by-snippet video. Fun!
