The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

We went to a church called Mosaic in Pasadena. The service was good enough. That’s how I feel about church these days. Good enough. I feel detached from church community. Not much feeling upon entering a service or exiting. Actually I think it’s a detachment from community in general. We have friends here in Riverside, but not a community really. I should try harder with our neighbors maybe. I did have a nice chat with Raina in the pool. We discussed the local kids who take over the pool between five and nine each night, the broken BBQs, and my favorite subject: California ants. She and her partner go down to the pool at night and play Dominoes. We could probably get in on that.

After church, we went to a bookstore and I did some bill paying online—that’s a surefire way to hurl me into land of darkness, sinking sand. One of my friends in theatre school used to say: “I’m poverty right now.” I hear you, K! Subsequently, I didn’t glean my usual pleasure while strolling through Pasadena’s world famous bookstore (okay, I don’t precisely know if it’s world famous, but it’s definitely good!), even with its cleverly designed sections and array of staff selections.

Then we sat in a park and ate lunch with some of Pasadena’s homeless community. Not intentionally, but that’s what emerged. We sat down on benches facing an open air amphi-theatre, and were suddenly immersed in a drama. Traveler after traveler made his bold appearance on stage. One to charge his cell phone. (Know thy outlets!) He pulled out a library book and earphones, lit a cigarette, and sat down to wait, drinking in our stares. Another guy pulled up with his gear and tested out one of the props: a mattress, upstage centre. He perched himself on the mattress, and probed a couple of angles, seemingly considering settling in for the night. But then he was gone. Maybe he was disturbed by the circling cop car. Apparently it’s not illegal to drive through a park and trample all the grass, but if it looks like loitering… A third—more tough than the others—made himself at home on the benches close to where we were seated, and chatted up a fellow street companion.

We looked on silently, eating our sour cream and onion chips, somehow begging to be accepted into this community—even for ten minutes. The longer we all sat on the bleachers, the more personas dissipated, until all I could see was each one’s vulnerability, including my own. I had made a particular effort to look LA–cool for all the Pasadena Christians, wearing my hipster black boots, but ‘cool’ is very fleeting even when it’s properly achieved. In reality, I was part of the same patchwork of aimless kids; all of us playing tough and passing the time.

I suggested we share our chips. Simon hollered: “Want some chips?” The one guy went in for a handful. Simon offered the whole bag and the guy took it eagerly. He then turned back to his friend, a tender parrot: “Want some chips?” A tentative offering. A vulnerable acceptance. Broken to broken, onstage vulnerability (the best kind!). Sweet community. Breath.