Any time I am in the neighbourhood, I see him there. On the pavement of the courtyard of the nursing home. So far, in every season of the year. In today's almost-spring morning chill, with a blue toque, grey sweatshirt, yellow plaid scarf, black pants and grey full-back slippers.
Sitting in a wheelchair. A gentle and still presence, quietly attentive to all that is around him. An old man with a beard worthy of Santa Claus, and a manner maybe worthy of God.
He takes an occasional drag of a cigarette, but that hardly seems his reason for being out there.
Maybe ten or fifteen feet from his chair, a scattering of broken bread pieces. Every day. And him quietly watching the coming and going of the birds that he feeds. I have never been there early enough actually to see him do the breaking and scattering. I just believe he does.
He also looks for, and follows the movements of any and every squirrel that comes into and through his field of vision. Patiently following every stutter-step and burst of speed.
When people happen by, he nods and says hello. Chats a few minutes.
Today he also sees and keeps an attentive eye on the Cogeco service van parked just off to one side of him, blocking and interrupting part of his normal field of vision. Or does he maybe just see the van as, this day, what fills this part of his field, and thereby earns his attention?
The grace of his gaze.
I am tempted to wonder what he thinks. How he feels.
More deeply, I wonder at how his quiet, attentive, daily presence draws me into a quiet space of my own. And helps me see. And accept. And deep down peacefully know myself within a landscape of gracious connected-ness.
I am thankful for him.
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