I sit cross-legged on a dark blue carpet in an old museum, enveloped by red canopies hanging all around me – Four walls of deep blood red adorned by little clay pieces remind me of the little red shrine on the base of the first floor landing of my old house in the country I left behind. The accents across the room remind me of an airport I was in at some time or other – the faces are not at all familiar but the sounds, I know I’ve heard before – herein are the brothers and sisters of my airport kin.
My fingers fly across the keyboard and words appear on my now red screen, which I changed to fit the theme of this little space that I’ve found some solace in – solace, and temporary warmth from the horrendous chill outside. It’s early afternoon - the streets of Edinburgh have finally come alive – nothing like the 9 a.m. quiet that I walked in on my way to class earlier this morning – the benches then were uninhabited, and the city clear of humanity - the roar of the bus engines intermingled with hungry seagulls was the only sound that could be made out distinctly. I spent most of the trek trying to hold my scarf in place so it wouldn’t fly away in the wind; cursed Edinburgh hills – so beautiful until you have to walk up them – more so for one in a rush because she was bloody late for class – again.
Alina called out to me yesterday from across the street and asked for "something to eat." She sat with her cup in hand by the pavement and a scarf over her head to keep out the cold. She told me she was an immigrant – from Hungary or some other country – I forget. She lived in the ghetto, and lived off of spare change. She kept saying sandwich, and I kept saying no money - and then she asked me if I was married and I said no. She giggled then and told me that perhaps what I should do is ‘find husband’ among the Scots. I told her I’d consider. Our conversation was largely bits of quiet, and bits of giggle and bits of "sandwich" and bits of "student, no money." Somewhere in the middle of all that, Alina asked if I was a singer and I nodded somewhat reluctantly. She smiled as if she fully understood the struggle – as if at some point, some time in the far past, before she ended up on a cold, hard pavement on the right side of the street, she too had nodded somewhat reluctantly to the same exact question.
"Sandwich," she said once again.
"No more money," I said apologetically as I dropped a pound and stood up to leave.
My precious pound was all I had, and it not sitting prettily in my red purse any longer. For a brief moment, I remember the story written in the Bible, of a poor widow who puts in two mites (which is very little) in God’s money box... Jesus is very pleased with her because she "gave out of her poverty," and that's more commendable than... well giving out of non-poverty. The Bible does a much better job telling this story. You can read about it here.
But the Big Book doesn’t tell you what happened to the widow afterwards when she goes home – a part of me would like to think that a chariot rider pulled up by her house with a scroll that said she was the A.D. 32 lottery winner and all her financial problems were solved. The other however, wonders if she ended up cross-legged on a dark blue carpet, with walls of deep red towering over her - writing about that last penny that she gave away and waiting for the church across the street to open - because free English cookies and tea.
“…I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.”
The Aposle Paul
