two strangers walk into a coffee shop
except maybe they're not strangers at all. thoughts on past lives, a life worth living, and the beauty of it all.
*cover photo by Nastya Dulhiier on Unsplash*
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When I'd planned this recent trip to Amsterdam, I hadn't anticipated spending most of the journey on the sick and shut-in list, yet I did. In the brief moments before the airplane was set to close its doors in Mexico City, fear gripped me as I realized I could miss my flight, yet I made it. Melatonin and Dramamine were no match for the pain that was keeping me up and alert. The flight was grueling. So many moments during my Amsterdam stay didn't go as planned. Sometimes, annoyance would creep in, yet it was the trip I needed. This was confirmed when I ran into Andi at a coffee shop. Considering it was the morning of my flight, I'd been back and forth about whether I would venture back into the city, yet I went. And now I know the reason why.
I learned very quickly that Amsterdam in March is very different from Amsterdam in June, which is when I'd previously visited. It was cold, dreary, and rainy, and one day, I could have sworn there was snow. On top of being sick, the weather wasn't tempting me to be outside, so I was more than okay staying in my hotel room. For the first few days, I only went out when necessary. My body spoke to me, and the message was crystal clear: girl, relax. It was telling me to still my body, mind, and spirit.
By Thursday morning, I regretted booking 9am tour tickets to the tulip gardens, known to some as the Garden of Europe. I was dragging in the worst of ways, and a part of me considered canceling in exchange for more rest. Walking through the sprawling property was magical. For a moment, I felt lonely seeing people with their loved ones, taking pictures, walking their dogs, and resting on the benches. However, I soon became overpowered by the beauty of it all.
Not just the blossoms that came in an arrangement of colors, shapes, and sizes, but the people—the miracle of life happening around me. I spent the rest of the time with my eyes just as focused on my fellow humans as they were on the picturesque flowers. It seemed like some type of art; the only worthy response was admiration and appreciation.
I was elated to discover "Past Lives" available to watch during my nine-hour flight to Amsterdam. Even though the person in front of me had fully reclined their seat and the screen seemed to be an inch within eyesight, I was happy to read the subtitles when the characters began to speak Korean. I had no expectations of the film. The name alone had interested me, but it turned out to be a cinematic gem. The Korean concept of Inyeon, described as "a powerful and appealing notion that two people are destined to meet, possibly over multiple lifetimes," is discussed throughout the movie. The depiction is breathtaking, heartbreaking, life-giving, and delicate all at once.
I've been blessed to have some very introspective interactions with strangers. So much of it happens during my travel, but in all the ways, all of us are traveling, trying to make it somewhere, whether we acknowledge it as such or not. When I was finally feeling well enough to be outside and explore, I'd made the impromptu decision to get my nose pierced again, so I stumbled into a random tattoo shop, telling them my plans. While they couldn't pierce me, the person working there was so easygoing and upbeat that it made me beam. I'd tried my best to meet them with just as much gentleness, to which they'd responded, "You bring the weather with you wherever you go." At first, I was like, huh? But then I was like, ahhhh, I get it. Regardless of how Mother Nature manifests, we all are our own weather systems, bringing along the sun, rainbows, hurricanes, clouds, thunder, and the full range. If we have a choice, which weather is best to bring along?
I've been with my best friend and her partner since Saturday, and I'm thankful for the folks who feel like sunshine. Not to say that anyone is always sunny, but it's nice to be in the space with folks who feel warm. As I lay on their rooftop earlier tonight with the stars in full sight, I thought, "Wow, life is so beautiful. So painful. "And I love it and hate it all at the same time. Sometimes, I find myself so disconnected from this place that it's hard to be in my body; other times, I want to sink further into it and absorb everything. It's a weird and stark contrast. The people I've been around and the weather they've created have made me want to stay. They've made this confusion of an existence that much more worth it.
I've been grieving my grandpa's death since September, and I still can't hear Stevie Wonder and not be sad. But I also smile and take it as a sign, especially when "As" plays. While he was not perfect in the least bit, as nobody is, my grandpa gave me a sense of love and care that I hadn't received from my own dad, his son-in-law. My relationship with my grandfather deepened during the period when my best friend moved to California, and I lived briefly with a girl I'd met through an online rental advertisement. I'd spend many weekends traveling north from the DC area to Delaware to be with my grandpa, his feisty, take-no-shit girlfriend Pat from New York, who cooked like she'd never spent a day outside the South, and her two dogs. All of them are gone now, and all I have is the rememberings I'm trying to keep safe that remind me they were here and not some figment of my imagination.
I'd spent the weekend in Mexico City while my grandpa's life was being celebrated all the way in New Jersey. He was buried near his first wife, Denise, who'd I'd met as a young child and I'd loved instantly. I had loved visits to New Jersey, where I'd first ate kiwi. Where I'd seen glimpses of Hellraiser on TV and was permanently scarred. Where my uncles had posters of TLC hanging on their walls—they were in their CrazySexyCool era. Where people spoke with different accents, unlike those I was familiar with in the South. Where everything moved fast, and it was like they knew they were short on time. Man, I loved visiting New Jersey. At least when my grandpa lived there. At least when my grandpa was alive. I hate funerals, even when they're in places I once loved. Places I, unfortunately, now think I may hate. I hate that someone I love is dead.
On this trip to Mexico City, a bird had landed at my feet, so young and wobbly that I worried it may tumble over. Instantly, something about this baby bird reminded me of my grandpa. Of this new time and realm he was walking into. And now, each time I see a baby bird, one that's still trying to learn their wings and get their bearings straight, I think of him. I pray that we recognize each other in our next life if he hasn't already come back to me in this one. He was like the rain that falls during the heat of August when you secretly find yourself begging for relief—refreshing and hopeful.
On the morning before I departed Amsterdam, I'd returned to the city center for one last hoorah since I'd spent the start of my trip holed up in my hotel room trying to get well. I'd gone to the same coffee shop I'd managed to visit for the three days prior, ordering my usual drink—the hot chocolate. Soy milk. No whipped cream, though it looked absolutely divine. I'd sat in the same area at the bar, though it'd been quite empty compared to the other days. I mean, it was 9:35am on a Monday. It didn't take long before the person seated beside me, who I'd soon come to know as Andi from New York, and I began talking after she complimented me on my sweatshirt. It's black with RESIST written in large white letters across the front. I've had it for six years, and at this point, it's a comfort blanket. My time with Andi was short because, remember, I had a plane to catch, but it was rich.
Andi appeared like a rainbow; the weather on this morning of our meeting was sunnier than it had been my entire trip. We chatted like old friends, with a grade of comfortability not often shared with strangers. She told me she'd recently lost someone close to her. I asked her to tell me about them. I told her about my move to Mexico over three years ago. She called me a powerhouse. She shared that she was heading to Kenya tomorrow for a safari. I told her she was brave because I was way too afraid for something like that. She told me about how her life had shifted after a diagnosis. I said she was an inspiration, and I love encountering people who remind me to live and enjoy my life. She told me about old grief, something tender and decades old. I told her about the accident, the deaths, the depression, and how that had led me to grief work. By the time I departed, begrudgingly because I wasn't ready to go, we'd hugged and snapped a picture. We said our goodbyes, "Talk soon! Enjoy your trip!" like two friends who'd met up on purpose and were allowed a small amount of time to catch up with one another. As I told Andi, I'm certain we know each other from another life.
There's a line from the film "Past Lives" that I can't get out of my mind: When Nora is talking to Hae Sung about their relationship in a previous life, she says, "Perhaps I was a bird, and you were the branch I landed on." Hearing this gave way to the grand idea that there are rarely ever strangers and that our interactions, no matter how small, are powerful.
It's easy to downplay the importance of the random person you sit beside on the subway during your busy morning commute or the person who sleeps at your favorite park, like Hugo or the store clerk who rolls their eyes as they ring you up. You grill them back because "who do they think they are?"
Or like the woman ambling down the sidewalk with her back in a curve, conjuring up visions of your grandmother who died more than twenty years ago, or like the yellow bird that had landed on the powerline outside your house who also reminded you of your grandma. It's like she's everywhere.
Like the coworker whose name you still don't know, like the neighbor who is always friendly when you cross paths but chain-smokes cigarettes that slowly steep into your studio apartment. It's stuffy, so you open the windows. You curse when a fly lands on the table like it's challenging you to a duel.
Like all the random people. All the moments that are producing a sequence of weather events. Clouds. And sun. and hail. And tsunamis. And light dustings of snow. And mudslides. And fog. And skies with no clouds like god splashed the whole thing with perfectly pigmented blue paint. Sky blue. On really special days, it appeared to be Carolina blue. What type of weather do we cultivate if we genuinely believe we are all connected somehow? What weather do we choose to bring along?
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🥲 this was all things beautiful!
"I'm thankful for the folks who feel like sunshine. Not to say that anyone is always sunny, but it's nice to be in the space with folks who feel warm." I love this so much and this line made me instantly grateful for all the sources of sun in my life. I'm glad you have them.