Contact Fran:

May 11

Today I am skipping my prayers and verses and instead posting something different…
————————-
 
May 8, 2018 – on the bus ride to my sister’s:

Sometimes I think my heart is just toooooo sensitive for me to be livin’ in this world.

I see a young woman struggling, hear her story, pray for her in my heart, let her see in my eyes the genuine concern and sympathy I feel. I offer the only assistance I have, a fumbled attempt to encourage her, wishing I knew the right words.

A different girl in the seat next to me is from Bolivia. I feel my eyes twinkling with joy as she openly shares her ambitions and accomplishments with me. After only a single hour, she is comparing me to her beloved aunt, and thanking me for encouraging her in her art — singing and playing the harmonica and recording her own album. I honed in on that particular dream of hers, for one of my favorite things to do in this life is to encourage others in their creative adventures. šŸ˜€

Later, my heart squeezes between a sorrow sandwich of two men in the seats near me, one dark skinned young man slumped down in the seat before me, probably hoping no one detects his wet sniffles, and one fair skinned older man in the seat behind me, his heavy tears pushing him forward, leaning out into the aisle. I know there are no words or actions to help either one of these hearts, but I feel for them silently.

I hear the old bus driver man panting, hoping he doesn’t pass out after struggling to move 4 seats to place 2 wheelchairs by himself. Only little me offered to help him, but I pray that the others who watched him struggle will at least not harrass him for running late. I bet he will do his job just fine, but I bet they don’t pay him worth his time. I hurt for him. I don’t know if my feelings are accurate, but I sense him desperately trying to keep his job, to keep up with the physical demands despite his declining health, needing to work to support his family — and I am hoping his family is more appreciative than his passengers. I am a little bit angry that people were able to just watch him struggle alone, and not offer to help.

I am remembering the old man at the station who begged for a cigarette and when he learned I don’t smoke, asked for a phone charger instead. While his device grew in power, so did his emotions, escalating to tears as he spoke pained words to me, directed at his estranged son. My Mate asked him to calm down and the man apologized profusely, saying he should not have disrespected me by getting so worked up. I hurt for him, and I respect the nobility of his regret for not being polite enough to a stranger (me) while he himself is being eaten up on the inside by his own blood.

As I sit on my baggage in line at the bus station, I admire so many of the people around me, yet to conserve mental energy I speak only to those who reach out to me. I adore the Caribbean couple who are sharing a happy moment of putting fresh new shoes on their toddling son, watching him awkwardly do a high-step, rapidly adapting to the unexpected change.
I appreciate the young man who reminds me so much of the funny actor Martin Lawrence. This man surprisingly trusted me to watch over his stuff, and so many other people trust me enough to ask me about the late busses, schedules, etc. I start to wonder what it is about me that makes me so approachable. I’m not even smiling as I sit — I am reading Adobe InDesign tips on my Kindle, lol.
One of the last peeps to reach out is a shriveled old man who acts like we’ve known each other forever, telling me all about his recent surgeries and other treatments. He seemed to be apologizing for his current condition, as if I could not see the vibrant young heart hidden behind the frail old man body. He hides his hurt behind his rapid-fire talking, but I still sense his frustrated disappointment over his physical condition. Like so many elderly folks, his own body is betraying him, an enemy of his heart.

I love it that my Mate sees so many of these types of things as well. We talk about our observations of the people around us, often of their struggles and strengths, their noble attempts to beat the odds, to be good people.
I love it that some peeps really do seem to be cheered a bit by my friendly smile, even though I have little else to give.
I love it that my son’s dear friend in Netherlands is also a sensitive empath like me, and how he didn’t even tell me anything like that… it was apparent from the card she sent and the words she wrote. Three times now, she has managed to make me feel less alone and more understood (from across the ocean!), this time also helping me realize the valuable beauty of feeling deeply for others, which can often seem like a lonely burden.

My nickname has been “Mirror Eyes” for decades, but in truth I am not an accurate mirror, for it hurts too bad to point out the negative aspects of other people’s behavior or circumstances – or even to agree with the negative when others point it out – for I am destined instead to feel for people, to always see the pain behind their actions, and to always respect their hearts.
————————-

 

Leave a Comment