Passing Strangers

A liminal flicker

Artistry by Michelle Beck.

“Good morning,” a man said in passing as I walked to the water, savoring sips of a freshly poured Cat and Cloud coffee.

The sun was shining, the ocean air cool.

“Good morning,” I responded with a sort of grounded, knowing, loving tone. A surprise frequency that left gentle ripples in its wake. It didn’t sound like me. And yet, it felt familiar.

At the water’s edge, I sat on a cliff bench overlooking the low tide. Watched some searching the pools, others with surfboards, carefully navigating rocks out to the break.

My phone’s soft alarm chimes rang, and I made my way back along the same neighborhood street. I needed to run errands before meeting a friend.

Close to the car, the good-morning man was now headed to where I’d come with his own signature blue cup.

I handled the first encounter well, despite sparkles of anxiety that can arise when it’s just me and a stranger. This second presented something more like fireworks, short-circuiting my brain.

Do I pull out my phone and check messages I don’t have? Look aloof and pretend to not recognize he’s the same dude from earlier?

Relieved, he took the lead with a “Good morning again,” and a laugh.

And I did what I’ve learned to survive moments of shutdown. I mirrored him with a “Good morning again,” and a laugh.

My body told me instantly that this old pattern was tired.

It wasn’t me anymore.

The free me wanted to know what he ordered. Wanted to point out how wild it was that we found ourselves passing again. What are the odds. What mundane magic. What sweet synchronicity.

A second chance

On an early Friday evening, I set off on foot, ritualizing the work week’s end full of obligations and expectations, and the weekend’s start where I alone crafted the agenda.

I skipped the sand for reasons unknown and meandered through quiet roads lined by homes with a beach vibe. Port-hole style windows, pelicans in stained glass, and wind chimes made of seashells.

Following my feet, I turned onto a gravel-lined alleyway leading to the ocean—a few blocks long, in between two rows of these fantasy-like cottages with enchanting entrances or doorways in disguise.

It felt like a secret place. A liminal space. A throughway that is the Saturdays and Sundays—that are, all, mine.

Nearing the end, a stranger, approaching.

The familiar feelings rising. A deep breath in of the twisted wisteria archways.

“Isn’t this ally the best?” he offered behind sunshades, his smile unhidden.

“I’ve never been this way before, and I just love it so much,” I blurted with the enthusiasm I’d typically reserve for a close friend.

Breaking the pattern, just a little bit, to weave a new one that feels more like a home where I belong.

> A liminal flicker: Once put in place to protect, some patterns now do us a disservice and could use a good unravelling. But first, we must become aware of what’s repeating that need not be any longer.