The Traveler

I saw a Traveler the other day. He wore a tattered tweed coat. Bent with age and time, he sat on the edge of a rusty park bench in downtown Asheville. With jerky motions from age-spotted hands that long ago stopped obeying the commands made of them, he tossed seeds onto the ground.

Black and white pigeons waddled and cooed in his direction; small flecks of snow began to fall as the winged scavengers ruffled their feathers. The old man directed a lifeless gaze at the gathering birds as they pecked their newly found food. Tucking his bedroll under the bench with a kick from his dilapidated brown shoes, he gripped his small bag of seeds tightly as a mother and daughter passed by. They looked right at him, but didn’t see.

The Traveler’s family had long ago forgotten him.

There is a special place. A place we all can go. A place where the harshly shouted demands of everyday life can’t be heard. It’s where the traveler inside each of us can relax and reflect on the events of the day. It’s a place where we can find ourselves once again.

For some, it’s where the noise from the outside world can’t intrude: a walk alone in the woods, a quaint coffee shop tucked in the back of a store, or even deep between the pages of a novel. For others, it’s the noise they seek: a sports arena full of spirit-filled fans, a swarming beach during the summer, or a walk on a busy downtown street.

For me, it’s both. I’m a writer.

The world has a story to tell. Just look around. All you have to do is slow down and take the time to listen. You would be amazed at not only what you’ll see, but more importantly what you’ll hear. Slowing down – that’s something hard to do. It’s how The Wife and I found ourselves in Asheville. A long romantic weekend can do amazing things for a friendship...and a marriage.

I ducked into a nearby store and made a purchase. Emerging from the shadowed doorway, I walked over to the Traveler without saying a word. I was concerned. How had he come to such a state? Was he jobless, an alcoholic, disabled, or had come to be on the rusting park bench by choice? Whatever the circumstance, no matter which path in life had led him here, I was sure of one thing. He was a fellow traveler in need.

I place five dollars in his jar.

For a moment, he stopped feeding the birds and looked up at me. His black-pooled eyes flickered as hope crept back into them. Then I placed the bag of birdseed I had purchased on the bench next to him. He smiled with a forest of yellow teeth usually hidden behind sunburn lips. No words were exchanged, as The Wife and I walked away. I felt sorrow for the traveler. Mistakenly, I thought he had no special place.

In our special places, we cannot hear the shouts and demands of everyday life. Instead, they are turned into light melodies that soften our hearts, renewing our spirits so we can face another day. My special place is in front of the computer — with a gray and black cat on my lap — The Wife quietly reading her book next to me.

We drifted away from the Traveler and went about the rest of our vacation — though he was never far from my mind. Each day we saw him, sitting on the same park bench. And each day we brought him birdseed, placing money in his jar as he played songs for us on a harmonica. On the fourth day, I finally understood.

He was happy.

That rusty park bench on a busy street in downtown Asheville wasn’t just a park bench to the Traveler. It was his special place.