Our Stories: Our Histories

Have you ever watched a woman shuffling down the street, poorly groomed, ill-fitting clothing that looks dirty and seems chosen to draw attention to the layers of toneless flesh hanging from her shoulder blades to her elbows? Surely you've seen her. The one with hair the color and texture of bacon grease, wearing flip-flops that draw attention to her too long, yellowed toenails and dirty, rough, calloused feet? She usually stares at the ground as she walks, as if searching for a treasure, and would probably be missing several teeth if finding that treasure made her smile. Her appearance doesn't speak to that unique spark of humanity that defines each one of us in relationship to everyone else. I don't know what it speaks to. Her history, either recent or life-long? Both? Her spark is certainly hidden from us--the observationists. I use that word on purpose because, at least when I see this woman, I'm not objective enough to be an  "observer." The glaring tragedy in this too common scenario is that the woman has probably been disconnected to the very spark that defines her to herself as being special: as being of value and having great worth. And the fact that I can't see that she is special--that I don't even take the time to look for that woman's spark, diminishes me.