that hair

Saturday morning diner breakfast after a late Friday night for me; the woman with the face of a hundred sad stories sits at the counter, her small pack at her feet that holds all she owns. Her hair is mussed, and her clothes are disheveled. I sit in a booth just feet away, my mussed hair covered by a hat, and some of my clothes are the ones I slept in last night too. But what a difference in these few feet. I slept in my own warm bed last night and it's only been 24 hours since my last shower. More notably, I know where my next several meals are coming from. In fact, I think I might be able to eat for a month from my freezer and cupboard. I have the luxury of these existential musings about law school and life, and while I should not judge the depth of her discernment by her appearance, all indications are that she is operating at a fairly low level on Pavlov's hierarchy of needs. The owner gives me a wink and a smile as he passes. No one looks her in the eye, in fact they look only to categorize and dismiss. I am reminded again of gratitude. Because mostly I'm where I am because of things that do not come from my own hands, and mostly she is too. For the many blessings of my life, I am thankful.