The Corner of Westwood and LeConte Here, not thirty feet away from the bus stop, there is a raised garden. By ‘raised garden,’ I mean a brick box that ends about four feet off the ground. It holds a few saplings and some miscellaneous plants. The walls of this raised garden provide an ideal seat for anyone who’s looking for a rest, a thinking spot, or perhaps a place to chill out and strum a guitar. This particular morning, there was a homeless man sitting on one of the walls and plucking out a melancholy tune on his six-string. He was calm, introverted, not bothering anyone. He seemed content to sit there and let his instrument do the talking. A moment later, I watched a mentally addled but well-wishing homeless woman wander across LeConte. Her hair was Trelawney-esque and she was carrying, of all things, a small pot that contained a single red flower. Pause. Listen. Let me explain. When I get metaphorical, I think of humans as glasses. Not the kind that help you see, but the kind you drink lemonade, water, or alcohol out of. I believe that when we are born, we are a shining, unblemished glass, born of melting sand. But as we grow older, as we get hurt (either by ourselves or by others), as we change, grow, metabolize, we get chips around our edges, some of them larger than others. So we become chipped, fragmented, compromised. But we are lucky to crumble in this slight way, because there are others, other glasses, who crack deep inside their core. Sure, they have the little nicks around the rim, but their problems go much deeper, deeper than where any psychologist can reach. These people are goblets with gashes, with rivulets of pain and fear that run from the edges of the glass to the middle, to the heart, maybe even all the way through. These damaged glasses are most often the people we see sitting homeless on street corners, sleeping in doorways, or the people in the asylums that pop culture has taught us to fear. Something in these people’s minds has pushed them to a literal
26 Pillars of Salt
