I arrived at Greenlake on a warm, sunny morning. Scattered around the park, lovers cuddled on blankets in the sun, readers lost themselves to other worlds in the shade, and countless runners, bikers, walkers and roller-skaters worked to fine tune bodies into that ideal image. Surely, amongst this activity, I will find someone to give my birch bark poem.
I rode my bike to the park. This way, I could deliver the poem and make my get away with minimal amounts of confrontation. I resolved to circle the three mile lake one full time before making my decision. If I had enough bark, I would make poems for everyone, but because I had only one poem, the recipient had to be carefully chosen.
Seattle is a very busy city. Most people flit from one activity to the next, leaving very little room for a relaxed meander through the park. People appear so consumed with business and the waning hours of daylight productivity that they rarely stop to see the approaching fall glimmer a warm brilliance off the lake surface. I was looking for the pause, the moment when a person looked up from the book and smiled at the beautiful world surrounding them.
Finding this moment, or a person about to enjoy this moment, is a very hard thing. Another hard thing is picking out a complete stranger with which to give a love poem. Which cross section of Seattle population should I chose? Gender, Age? How will the poem be received? Will people think I am hitting on them? Can I get away before they try to respond? Am I pretentious to think people would enjoy this act in the first place? Doubts and insecurities filled my head and fogged my intentions. I felt voyeuristic and guilty. The poem was wrapped tenderly in my sweaty palm. I continued my search.
A man sitting on a park bench, reading. Mode of transportation: bike splayed behind bench. Reading a science fiction novel. Late 40's, early 50's, slightly overweight. Occasionally looks up to watch young female runners.
Old couple walking down the path. Women in wheel chair, man pushing. They talk and laugh, white hair catching sun filtering through the shade. Both wear thick glasses and talk loudly, responding quite often with "What?"
Young man in black trench coat. Greasy pony tail pulled away from face and falling midway down his back. A parrot is on his shoulder. Walking opposite direction of wheel chair couple. Thick headphones blare something angry.
Two female lovers on a blanket in the shade. Too far up on the grass. Intentions too easily misinterpreted. Will leave them to their cuddling.
Runners, bikers, walkers and roller skaters. Sweating, red, avoiding eye contact, listening to small devices and focusing on section of ground 10 ft in front of their path.
I was growing discouraged when I finally saw them. Two men were sitting near the community center, one on a brick wall and the other in a wheel chair. Resting between them was bag of rolls, most likely stale and past consumeability. They were feeding a flock of pigeons that had gathered at their feet. I guessed father and son immigrants from Somalia or Ethiopia, although both were older with the son in his late 50's and the father nearing mid 70's or early 80's. Nearing the end of my loop, I decided the moment was now or never. I pulled up on my bike with the roll of bark ready in my hand.
"Happy Tuesday" I said, extending my hand forward.
"Happy Tuesday? What's dis?" I realized the recipients spoke very little English. The son accepted the bark with questioning on his face.
"Happy Tuesday" I said again, smiling but nervous "A gift from me to you. Enjoy the beautiful day."
I rode away before I could see if they unrolled the bark and read the poem. I wasn't even sure if they would understand the words or know ee cummings was a 20th century poet. I was happy, regardless. Even if the poem didn't have the intended impact, I knew that I would remember the image of father and son sitting in the sun and feeding the pigeons. Their moment was a gift to me, a proof that life can be slowed down and even pigeons, cooing rats of the sky, can be cared for and enjoyed. I wonder if this Tuesday will stand out for them, as the day they went to feed the birds and were given a piece of bark by a crazy girl on a bike.
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