new to living

Last night while doing laundry at the local washateria, I noticed a man covered in tattoos who was doing his wash (including his tennis shoes) only 5 to 10 feet away. In particular, I noticed that both his wrists were thickly bandaged with perfectly white gauze.

And I understood that it was new—that he was living.

That he was new to living another day to do his wash.

In between loads, the tattooed man did quite a bit of journaling in a spiral bound tablet, while I passed the time chatting it up with an old friend over the phone. At the end of the evening, the tattooed man and I left the laundromat at pretty much the same moment—his foot out the door just before mine.

There is an old blanket that I love.
It is cream-colored, cotton, and from India.
It has a little 3" hole in it from all the wear-and-tear.

Earlier in the afternoon yesterday, I almost threw that blanket away, thinking "Who would want this old thing?"

Then something stopped me and said, "wash it."

I did.
I washed my favorite blanket at the laundromat last night.

And as I left the washateria yesterday evening—stuffing my clean smelling tees and socks into my little truck—I saw the tattooed man making his way down the street with a lonely, blue duffle bag and freshly clean, yet still a bit damp tennis shoes.

And I ran after him.

And I said, "Excuse me, Sir, would you like this blanket?"

He misheard me and said, "No, that's not mine. I didn't leave it there. It must be someone else's."

Such sweetness and humility.

I said, "No, no. Sir, it's been my blanket. And I'm moving. I can't take it with me. Would you like to have it? Would you like to have my blanket?"

And he said smiled and said, "Yes. I would...thank you very much."

It felt so peaceful giving the blanket to that man. I paused to watch him wander down the street with it tucked beneath his arm as he headed off along his path—new to living another day.







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