What We Already Have

She felt like her life could be accurately represented by an empty picture frame. Something vintage and ornate but–nonetheless–empty.

One day, she was a little girl playing with her orange cat by the creek, and the next morning, she woke to discover that twenty years had passed with nothing to show for it. All of that time was gone, and she still didn’t know who she was or what she liked. Most days, she sat reading novels that only half-interested her or took long naps with the curtains drawn, for she didn’t know what else to do with herself.

And, finally, she realized: she was tired of it. She couldn’t take any more of this, her dull existence. She was still young, she was healthy, she was beautiful, but she didn’t care whether she was alive or not. As far as she could tell, she’d never lived at all and had only been inside some long, vague dreamland.

The only problem: she didn’t know how to get out.

— — —

The first idea she had was to get a job, something to get her out of her own head.

Anyone else in the 21st century would think the most logical first step for exploring careers would be to research and apply online, this she understood, but she also knew she would become abstracted and lose all motivation if she stayed indoors another minute. Another twenty years would pass, and she would be livid with herself.

So, she got her bicycle out of storage and rode into town.

The air was still but not stuffy. The sun was bright but not blinding. It was the kind of day that most people would describe as “perfect,” for that is the only kind of vocabulary they know how to use in relation to weather. Never jaw-dropping or awe-inspiring or heavenly, just perfect.

She had on the same slip dress she used as a nightgown, and her hair was glorious as it blew out behind her in the breeze. There was so much excitement around her–cars with their windows down and music playing, people taking walks with their dogs, lovers picnicking under a tree–yet her eyes never wandered from the road in front of her. When she saw the first window with a “NOW HIRING” sign, she dropped her bicycle on the sidewalk and went in.

And so this continued. She would make her way directly to a person with a nametag and ask for an application. Once received, she would exit the store, sit on the curb to fill out the papers, and then return inside to hand them over. She did this six times before she breaked on a bench with a bottle of water.

She was exhausted. She wasn’t used to socializing, pedalling, or even leaving the house for something unplanned. But she was proud of herself, proud of breaking out of her normal routine of nothingness.

She sat with her head back, eyes closed, and the sun hitting her face.

She heard someone whistling nearby. Then there was a rustling sound as they drew closer. She sat forward and saw a kindly looking man sweeping the sidewalk in front of her. They made eye contact, so she smiled. And he smiled back.

“Don’t let me disturb you, miss,” he said. “I’ll only be a moment longer.”

She answered, “It’s no bother. It is very nice of you to be keeping this town clean.”

“Why, thank you. I do enjoy seeing the streets free of debris, but it also helps that I get paid to do this.”

“You get paid?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes. This is my job.”

She could not believe her ears. Here was this lovely human being telling her that he worked outside in this beautiful town for a living. Much better than being inside any one of those square brick buildings day after day. Much better than trapping herself in her bedroom all the time.

So, she told him the errand she had been running and asked if his employer was hiring. She told him that she would love, more than anything, to be a street cleaner. There was something about the occupation that drew her in, the desire–through the use of her physical form and persistence–to uncover something beautiful.

In turn, he asked for her name and number and told her that he would let his employer know he had met someone who would make a good addition to their crew.

She thanked him with a squeeze of the hand and returned home on her bicycle, smiling wide.

— — —

It was as simple as that: she received a call a few days later and was officially hired as a street cleaner. She went from fighting an agitated soul to feeling like she had found her calling, or at least one of the many callings that she would be pulled towards throughout her life.

Every day was just as electrifying as the next. She would ride her bicycle–rain or shine–to the main building, check in with her manager, and head to the equipment shed. Her first step outside with a rake or broom or shovel in her hand sent a jolt of joy into her heart. She felt like she was–every day–viewing one the world’s seven wonders. She was exhilarated by the very breath in her lungs as she absorbed the beauty around her–including her own. She was a sponge that would never be fully saturated, there was always room for more.

And this “beauty” wasn’t any more prominent than what you’d find in any other American town. The difference was that she noticed. After such a long period of near-solitary confinement, she saw what most people overlooked. She found wondrous beauty in the clouds moving across the sky, a small flower growing in a crack of sidewalk, a paper bag blowing through an alley like a tumbleweed, everything blending to create an exact place–in an exact space, in an exact time–that would never be the same, always shifting. Always changing.

She realized that change–and noticing the small changes–was an act of accepting defiance. She had no control over the rotations and revolutions of the earth. She could not stop herself from becoming an old woman. But she could make time feel slower when she observed small beauties and reflected on what made them so dear: their mere presence, just existing.

And they were all just like her.

She hadn’t needed big ambitions and riches and tons of friends to feel fulfilled. She had needed to reclaim her mind so she could be present for sunsets and the holding of hands, things that the world always offers but that are often ignored.