A face on the street corner brought a disconcerting incident abruptly into my consciousness.
It was January, several years ago.
I was racing from University of New Mexico's Law Library to my Honda Fit, parked several blocks away at a meter, in imminent danger of receiving a ticket.
My rust-colored down coat clutched close to my shivering body,I was preoccupied with the boring details of a health bill proposal when I encountered her.
At the intersection of Yale and Lomas she was little more than a bundled form, sitting on a bulging navy blue duffel bag, a radio pressed to her scarf-covered ear.
As I paused on the curb beside her, shifting from one foot to the other, she looked up and asked, "Have you got any spare change?" The words rechilled my warming spine.
I wanted to escape, to run across the street against the light, dodging a Bekins van.
I felt trapped and somehow guilty about her condition.
I mumbled, "I'll look," and quickly placed the two quarters designated for the meter in her chapped, outstretching hand.
She was just one of the dozens upon dozens of individuals, dotting the Albuquerque's street corners, with and without signs of desperation and need.
A soft voice with a Southern lilt caressed my ears as she thanked me.
Then I did a double-take as she matter-of-factly asked, "What makes you so sweet?" I was surprisingly moved by what might otherwise have caused my eyes to roll heavenward.
I turned to look into her red, rapidly aging face.
From beneath her wool wrap gray eyes looked up at me and smiled.
At that very moment, something imperceptible clicked in my head.
I smiled back, saw the Walk sign flash, and hurried across the street.
As I drove north on 25 to Placitas, a welter of images and feelings flooded my consciousness, catching me by the throat.
Fragments of long-submerged, gut-wrenching memories from my adolescence rose to the surface.
My father had become emotionally ill and could not work.
We had lost our home, our car, and our dignity as we mooched off a succession of kind, but intruded upon, relatives.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming desire to see that woman again.
I wanted to let her know somehow that I understood.
That sometimes things happen, things over which you may have little or no control.
But, the following day she was not there.
I was feeling vaguely disconsolate until I had a flash.
It was a recognition of what was missing from my work on the state health bill.
It was my passion...
my desire to help those who were going through what I had gone through.
For your practice to have meaning, fulfill your purpose, and be both a success and enjoyable, you need to know and follow your passion.
It was January, several years ago.
I was racing from University of New Mexico's Law Library to my Honda Fit, parked several blocks away at a meter, in imminent danger of receiving a ticket.
My rust-colored down coat clutched close to my shivering body,I was preoccupied with the boring details of a health bill proposal when I encountered her.
At the intersection of Yale and Lomas she was little more than a bundled form, sitting on a bulging navy blue duffel bag, a radio pressed to her scarf-covered ear.
As I paused on the curb beside her, shifting from one foot to the other, she looked up and asked, "Have you got any spare change?" The words rechilled my warming spine.
I wanted to escape, to run across the street against the light, dodging a Bekins van.
I felt trapped and somehow guilty about her condition.
I mumbled, "I'll look," and quickly placed the two quarters designated for the meter in her chapped, outstretching hand.
She was just one of the dozens upon dozens of individuals, dotting the Albuquerque's street corners, with and without signs of desperation and need.
A soft voice with a Southern lilt caressed my ears as she thanked me.
Then I did a double-take as she matter-of-factly asked, "What makes you so sweet?" I was surprisingly moved by what might otherwise have caused my eyes to roll heavenward.
I turned to look into her red, rapidly aging face.
From beneath her wool wrap gray eyes looked up at me and smiled.
At that very moment, something imperceptible clicked in my head.
I smiled back, saw the Walk sign flash, and hurried across the street.
As I drove north on 25 to Placitas, a welter of images and feelings flooded my consciousness, catching me by the throat.
Fragments of long-submerged, gut-wrenching memories from my adolescence rose to the surface.
My father had become emotionally ill and could not work.
We had lost our home, our car, and our dignity as we mooched off a succession of kind, but intruded upon, relatives.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming desire to see that woman again.
I wanted to let her know somehow that I understood.
That sometimes things happen, things over which you may have little or no control.
But, the following day she was not there.
I was feeling vaguely disconsolate until I had a flash.
It was a recognition of what was missing from my work on the state health bill.
It was my passion...
my desire to help those who were going through what I had gone through.
For your practice to have meaning, fulfill your purpose, and be both a success and enjoyable, you need to know and follow your passion.
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