Last weekend, while writing downtown at a local brewery I'm fond of, a woman sat down next to me. It was a beautiful day. We were outside. She was reading a book, drinking a latte (the brewery also serves as a coffee shop). The book itself actually belonged to the business establishment, and I came to find out that she just reads a little more every time she visits.
When I'm alone in public, and especially after a beer, I get curious about the world and the people in it. I want to let them in, which isn't my natural disposition, so I asked her what she was reading, (I've since forgotten the name of the book) and since she was a polite person, she also asked me what I was reading, (Yusef Komunyakaa's 2011 collection, The Chameleon Couch).
And then the usual questions from me: have you lived here long, where are you from, how did you get here? Most people I meet in California are not from California. And she was no exception. Originally from Canada, she spent her life following a yogi. Lived in Pune, India, for seven years. At some point, she was in Arizona for a while. Eventually, a group of about 30 followed the yogi out to Santa Barbara, and that was her life until the yogi died.
The yogi had given her a new name, so she went by Dharm. She was in her eighties. No, the group doesn't meet up anymore. No children. She has a good living situation here. Santa Barbara is lovely. She asked me about my life and how I got here, which is always a sad story that begins with my father. I asked her if she would mind watching my computer while I went to the restroom, to which she responded: I'm not going anywhere, this is interesting. We talked most of the afternoon.
I got her email. I need to email her. The world is full of ordinary people who have lived extraordinary lives. I asked her if she lived the life she wanted. She said yes. I asked her if there was ever a danger of living a life she didn't want. And she said of course, but that's always fixable.
It seemed like wisdom.
