72nd Warrior

Friday, July 30th @ 6:03pm

I'm sitting here and about to write a blog, and I wanted to focus it on shoes, and the abundantly different types there are on people walking by me. I was going to title it--Shoes: The Home of the Sole. And sort of relate the individuality of each personal choice with the diversity of each person's 'sole' (soul). I sat at the 72nd Street Station across from a saxophone musician, and my thoughts turned to him. I say 'musician' rather than 'player' or 'saxophonist', because he looks as though life has given him many opportunities to work out life lessons and challenges--opportunities to channel his lifes triumphs and tragedies and engage in his musical abilities.

With every breath he took in while resting in between sets, I could feel the heaviness of a life lived hard. Or at least a life lived on his terms. Covered in black from head to toe, he appeared to be the reincarnation of The Man In Black. Sans the tailored shirt, fitted cowboy hat and darkly religious lyrics. Oddly enough, he sported a baby blue and white baseball cap and also wore a laborous grin. It seemed painful as he gorged gulps of air and tiresome as he expelled it through some seemingly beautiful musical osmosis exchange--turning city smog into life-changing melodies. But if his presence alone didn't draw my eyes hungrily at what was going in his life, the music he created surely did.

I caught a smile as I observed him speaking to Trudi, an elderly woman dressed in nursing whites. She walked directly up to him as if old friends..engaged him and asked for a song. She was generous with her time and conversation. The man in the blue baseball cap reached slowly for his golden pipe and began playing a familiar tune. Although Trudi stood with her back to me, I could tell from her posture and the way she lilted her head back a little, that she was transported to a time and place that made people around her envious. As she clutched her heart and quickly and discretely wiped the corner of her eye, she generously reached into her pocketbook and handed into his crumpled felt cap layed before him, her love offering. It was a beautiful capitalistic exchange.

He dabbed his forehead with a folded brown napkin--the kind I take from Starbucks and keep in my bag for those 'just in case' moments. You know--unexpected sneeze, embarrassing runny nose, or to wipe New York off of my hands or face.

He catches the eye of a little boy with his mother and this...this generates a smile on the old mans face. Without warning, the chords of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" billows from his horn. It's almost as if the entire environment shifts for a brief moment. I noticeable recognition and gentle smiles cross the faces of those of us around him. Stressful-faced drones recently raised from the gallows of city tunnels turn towards the direction of the sound, and the pressure of long hot work days are instantly and dramatically diffused. I, we, are individually transported to a memory--a lovely distant thought--an innocent and happy recollection. It is amazing what wonders this wizard has concocted with his sword.

Noah, the little boy, is now seated on his daddy's lap, just a lap away from the man in the blue cap. And he jumps with delight at having his parents with him, experiencing this magical moment, whilst the immediate world around him is washed in sounds of wine and dark brewed brown coffee. Elegant sheers of eggplant organza and lavendar tiffany drift through the evening sunset and permeates the New York noise; amid the clangs and klops of shoes, the clinks from dog leashes and the jarring sounds from the monstrous asphalt creatures, the man in the blue cap is fighting this fight. Thankfully for us all, he is winning.