It was Friday, dusk. Mists slicks Manchester Road as winds whine their hearts out. Cars bumper-hug each other through stoplights, inching toward the next one. Horns blare. From trucks and vans, heavy rock crazes roiling madness upon the unwary.

I, too, want to get home.

Suddenly, to my right, a touching scene grabs me. I shudder. A black and white golf umbrella canopies a small woman sitting in her motorized wheelchair; attached to it are two shopping carts, one large, the other smaller, both filled with what appeared to be her belongings. She is in no hurry, waiting for the stoplight to change.

Who is this woman in the dark jacket and slacks, her hands resting upon the controls? Where does she live? Does anyone look after her? Why the shopping carts? Does she sleep in her own bed? She was a child once. Vulnerable to mishaps, yet, this evening, she forages ahead intent on some mission.

I expect I’m not alone with my questions. Other motorists gawk.

Boldly, she wears her disability for all to see. She does not fear it. Unlike us, we disguise our disabilities behind facades of “wellness,” that split us from our essential humanness with its real diminishments. But with acceptance to the Source of all life comes a way out.

Perhaps this slight woman is freer than we are.

 

 

 

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