Patience is a virtue. One of
the many I lack. Nevermore evident than when I am grocery shopping.
Some days the only time I get out of the house is when I force
myself to head to the market to buy what I need for dinner. Often times I go there with
absolutely nothing in mind and find myself inspired by the aromas of fresh baked bread or
slow roasted chicken.
I enjoy the experience except for the crowded vegetable section of
the store. This is where most people slow down so they can inspect, fondle, smell, and
squeeze until they have discovered that one grapefruit, that special cantaloupe that
everyone else missed.
I can be seen, plastic bag in hand, waiting, moaning, and huffing as
I finally slump over my cart in frustration.
In just a few seconds I'm in and out, green pepper in hand and on my
way to the scale to slap that sticker on it. No big deal for me.
Except for yesterday.
I decided to pick up some string beans. Of all the sections in the
vegetable market, the string bean people move the slowest. One bean at a time. "Oh,
Lord give me patience!" I said to myself as I approached the counter.
There, taking up most of the space, blocking access with his cart,
was an elderly man. His messy white hair flipped up in the back making him look like a 80
year old hippie. He was average height and looked much like a string bean himself. Thin
and frail looking, he moved extra slow and his hands seemed to tremble as he groped
through the pile of beans.
Without turning his head toward me he said, "It takes time to
find the right ones. There's an art to this you know."
"I didn't realize that. Although that explains why everyone
spends so much time here. They're artists," I said.
"I see them as people," he replied.
"The beans?" I asked.
"Yes," he said in a "matter of fact" tone.
"See this one? This short, stubby one often times gets
passed over. It's appearance doesn't fit the perfect image of a long, thin crisp string
bean. Most likely after too much handling the clerk will toss it out thinking no one wants
it. So I take it. People don't know what they are missing passing up this one," he
continued.
"Now, I know this curved one won't be used either. Some people
see food as more than nourishment. It's all in the presentation. The image of a few select
beans, all of the same length, lying on a plate nestled perfectly next to the entrée,
supposedly adds to the enjoyment of the meal. I for one see my food as representing life
itself. The world is full of texture, odd shapes and sizes. My world is not perfect. Nor
is my dinner plate," he said.
Suddenly I realized that we were the only ones in this aisle. Very
unusual for this time of day. I was calm and very attentive to everything this man was
saying. Also unusual.
"Yes, this pile of beans reminds me that people come into my
life in all sizes. Some are broken like this one. Others are still attached to the vine
where they were nourished and protected and often times were ripped away from their roots
carrying with them resentment and fear. Like this bean, the vine needs to be removed so
that it can be seen in it's full beauty and not one clinging to things of the past,"
he said as he tossed them in his bag.
A few minutes had passed as I stood in silence just watching the old
man as he dug deep into the pile, turning and tossing them from the bottom like one would
stir a salad.
"Well, I must go now," the man said. "I'll leave you
with these 'human beans.' Be kind to them. Don't judge them just by looks. Inside every
one of them is the same life giving elements. But like people many will never be given the
chance."
"So they end up on the bottom tossed aside?" I asked.
"The difference is," he replied, "as people we
have a choice not to settle for the garbage heap."
He tied the top of the plastic bag and turning away missed the cart
completely as he tried to place it inside.
"Sir, let me get that for you," I said.
"Every once in a while I misjudge the distance. I've been blind
all of my life. You'd think I'd have this worked out by now."
Blind? I couldn't believe it. Suddenly a young lady appeared from
around the corner. "Poppa! I'm over here, straight ahead of you. Would you like me to
pick out some nice tomatoes?"
"No, honey. I know just what I need," he said.
Turning back toward where I was standing he whispered, "She's
always in such a hurry. She'll miss the best ones. Have a great day!"
What insight. What vision this old man had. A blind man helped me to
see what joy I had been missing in the simple act of shopping for vegetables. I wonder
what else I have been blind to in the hurry of my day.
By the way. Tonight we're having brussel sprouts. I can't wait to
get back to the market.
© Bob Perks
Bob@bobperks.com