seeing another side

Yesterday, I wrote about the loss of our neighbor, Gerry Niewood. He was one of the people that make Glen Ridge so special. From the outside, we look like a provincial little town, but scratch the surface, and you find a community of amazing artists who not only shine in their professional lives but also give so much to the community. Gerry was one of the most brilliant.

I thought about how I perceive all the people moving around, and in and out of my life. And it occurred to me that we view our lives like movies, in which we are the stars. When you watch a movie, there are the main characters, secondary and minor characters, and extras. It is much the same in life. We see ourselves as the main characters in our lives; we have secondary and minor characters -- people who add color and flavor to our lives but don't really affect the action -- and extras -- the people who are in the background, entering and exiting, moving in and out of our scenes. We all perceive ourselves as the "star of the show," and rarely give a thought to the fact that, at the same time, we are secondary, minor, or merely extras in someone else's story.

Sometimes, a window opens in the lives of one of our "extras," and we realize how much more there is to the lives of people around us. One night, when I visited the senior residence at dinner time, I read to one of the tables from "Stuart Little." Just when I got to the part where Stuart lowers himself down the drain to find Mrs. Little's earring, one of the residents, Bruno, mentioned that he used to know E.B. White. "I used to visit him, you know, and he would occasionally read me his poetry." "I didn't know he was a poet," I said. "Wasn't he though? Or was that the other chap with an "E" for a first name," asked Bruno. "Are you thinking of e e cummings?" I suggested. "Oh yes, that's the chap." Bruno added, "and you know who else is an amazing poet? Barbara, the cook." "e e cummings had a cook who was a poet?" I asked. "No my dear, the cook here," said Bruno, gesturing at the lady serving the food.

I had only met Barbara in passing. Barbara is a beautiful, big boned, chocolate-complexioned woman who has an accent that is a musical blend of England and the West Indies. After dinner, I told her that Bruno had mentioned that she is a poet, and asked her if I could read her poetry.

"I have hundreds of poems at home," Barbara said. "The words just come to me, and I have to write them down." Barbara eagerly brought up some loose papers that were in a ziploc bag. There were perhaps 25 poems in that bag, and they were all remarkable. They were amazingly evocative, with unexpected rhymes and vivid images. Julia had not come into dinner -- another fall -- and so I brought her dessert in to her and asked her if she would like to hear the poems. I read 6 or 7 out loud to her. "I will never look at Barbara the same way again," she said. "I always thought of her as just a cook, and never thought that she might have any other life beyond this place. But really, she is an artist, isn't she." I agreed.

If you stop to look at all the "extras" in your life: the people you pass who are in a hurry to make their train; or are impatiently waiting on the supermarket check out line; or laboring in your neighbor's yard, consider that they might have lives rich with details and color that you never imagine. One of them might be newly in love, or have a talent so far removed from the type of work they do that you would never imagine it. And it's useful to stop and imagine it. To really look. After all, to them, you are probably just "an extra" too.