Assigned Seating

     Twenty minutes ago I was trying to choose a table to sit at, today this seemed like an important choice. A man in a fishing hat was gathering his things near the table I set my bag on. As Alyssa and I situated our over sized purses and laptops and sunglasses the fisherman stopped and turned to us like he had something to say. I thought for a second that he was offering us his table, which made no sense since we already had one and this cafe is dead aside from the old couple simultaneously thumbing through pages of separate Diabetes magazines.  

     I looked at the fisherman and smiled, nervously. 

     "Are you a writer?" he asked

     "What?" Alyssa said even though we both heard him clearly. She said no, then looked at me. I didn't saying anything. I'd been talking about my apparent writer's block all day. Am I writer? I am, in most senses of the word, right? I didn't admit to it. I just stared at him. 

     He stared back from underneath his ridiculous hat and motioned at the table he had just vacated, "this table is good for writing." I smiled. He left. Did he know I was having trouble today? Did he know I've been struggling for the past few months to put a cohesive idea on paper? That I'm afraid to get everything out on paper because it makes it all real?

     In my mind this was one of those moments other people have, but not me. The moments I hear about through long distance phone calls where someone has an experience that totally sets their life or, at least, their day in perspective. A powerful run in, an intense conversation with a stranger, the perfect song on the jukebox, whatever, today was my day. 

     I walked over to the fisherman's table. I could see some writing on it's surface. I assumed he was talking about some inspiring phrase he found printed on the table top. I looked down and realized that the only thing written on the table was an add for the cafe's premium coffee blends. This wasn't one of those moments. 

     So, twenty minutes later I'm sitting at a table, not THE table, but one that's proving to suffice. I don't know what the fisherman was inspired to write sitting at the table across from me or what it means that he told me about his experience and that I've spent half a page reliving a brief conversation. I am, in this particular moment sure of one thing...

     I can't make it mean anything.

     I attach meaning to words and actions like I inhale and exhale. It's involuntary. It's like I'm trying to solve a chronic mystery coming out of everyone's mouth. Today, in this freezing cafe, in the most uncomfortable chair I have decided to change that habit. During conversations, that usually happen  through phone lines or in parked cars after midnight, I've been reminded of the importance of the present and all the challenges I'm missing trying to find the logic or meaning in what might not mean a god damn thing.

     Tonight I am accepting, being, and breathing in the simplest sense. I am shivering. I am aching. I am longing. I am hoping. I am forgiving. I am creating. 

     I will be everything tonight. I will mean only what I mean. And I will take you the same way if you'll let me.