Spontaneity is so refreshing, even when it’s dull. It’s funny how life sometimes requires it of us, even when our minds are so narrow-minded and focused on control that it would take death to keep us from achieving our goal. But sometimes we listen to our inner traveler, that free voice deep in the pit of our chest that’s connected to the core of our mind and spirit. Sometimes, we listen to that honest consciousness, but not as often as we should, as we often confuse it with our desires which often lead to feelings of guilt and heightened self-consciousness.
I was on my way to pick up a piece of music equipment when I decided to stop at the grocery store. My wife had been ill, and I wanted to grab some vitamin C rich products and organic veggies to concoct a natty meal plan that would enable her body to murder the microscopic infidels. I chose to stop at a grocery store that I never patronize because it’s far from my house. But I felt that little nagging nuisance inside me urge me out the car. So I obliged, feeling empowered, perhaps, by what I perceived was a mission of valor and virtue.
I grabbed some artichokes, fresh ginger and garlic, some asparagus, spinach and herbs, and of course oranges, mangoes, papaya, pineapple and cantaloupe. I also snagged a drink chock full of vitamins and organic veggies, and since Uncle Sam was paying, I bought organic. This was my health care plan. No job, no insurance, fugetaboutit. I’ve never had better access to basic services since I lost my job. When I had money, I couldn’t afford anything. Now that I’m broke, it seems like everything is taken care of.
After stocking my cart with fresh produce and trendy fruit drinks I mozied towards the processed organic food aisle. Man, I felt like a socially conscious green consumer! I imagined my car was a hybrid, and that I lived in an Earth ship buried in the ground with solar panels on the roof and a composting toilet that fed my organic garden of grains and grasses that I fed my goats and chickens. I thought about getting a Flock of Seagulls haircut, spending $85 on fair trade jeans that had pre-worn holes in it to make me appear to not care about looks, and then getting a bicycle and walking everywhere with my right pant leg pulled up so everyone would know how much I respect the earth.
I was observing the selection of teas and the Yerba Matte jumped out at me in all its trendy and hip glory. As I perused the conscious-yuppie staples, three teenagers came laughing down the aisle, seemingly in touch with their emotions and content with their weaknesses (which I perceived by their self-deprecating humor, tight jeans and interesting verbal patterns.)
“It’s Fig Newmans,” Blane said. I turned around and smiled at them. The box had a picture of Paul Newman and what I assumed was his wife on the cover in classic American Gothic style.
“So if you buy them does Paul Newman come out and do a little dance?” I asked, and gave my best rendition of what a Paul Newman dance would be if he were an awful Riverdancer.
“They don’t have milk in them,” he replied. Serai and Greg smiled at me. Blane was 19, tall and lean and health conscious. I suspected that his parents were liberal and he was given guitar lessons at a young age but he perhaps rebelled against the formalities of music education and pursued more visceral audio interests. He seemed a bit taken back by my comment, as he was the obvious leader of the group and his cohorts laughed at my dance whereas he focused on the dairy-free nature of the Fig Newmans.
Greg was fit and very American: blue eyes, tightly cropped hair and a constant smile. His eyes were glazed over, and I suspected that they perhaps had the munchies after a ride on the sativa train. Serai was petit in her physique and minimal in her projections. She seemed to have grown up in a conservative household that reminded women of their “place.” All three appeared to be an odd fit for each other. She seemed Muslim, Greg seemed Baptist and Blane seemed agnostic. But that all changed with a quick and random invitation issued by Greg.
“You should come to a bible study,” he asked. The others looked on and nodded in agreement. I immediately gathered myself. I find these kinds of uninvited invitations most disheartening. It’s reminiscent of a stranger offering a child candy while the mother isn’t looking. But, I knew they were only trying to reach out to me on a spiritual level. They weren’t aggressive or judgmental, just curious and anxious and naive.
What began as a spontaneous invitation quickly turned into a religious debate, right there in the organic aisle of Kroger.
“You see, Christ, in my understanding of him, didn’t go around telling people to come to meetings,” I said. “He lived a certain way. He didn’t talk about it, he did it. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t go around telling people how great he was, which is what most people who call themselves Christians do. If we are Christians, than why are we in this store talking about being Christian? Why aren’t we giving our time to others, helping the poor, living selflessly?”
Paul took offense to my position. “Yeah, but it’s all contextual. What they did in their time is different from what we do now.”
As the debate heated, a man with large dreadlocks tied in a bun walked past us. I noticed he glanced at us as he passed, and he seemed to linger near our conversation. Then, a young woman who was most certainly from the Middle East hovered close by. Before we knew it, it was a real live debate.
“All your perspectives are coming from a Euro-centric worldview,” said the dreadlocked man, whom I will call Peter. “Jesus was not blond-haired and blue eyed, he looked more like a modern day Muslim.”
The new girl, Haya, also interjected her heart. “We have to look inside ourselves to understand the truth,” she said.
After half an hour of chatting, my phone rang. It was my wife. I knew she was waiting for me, and I knew she was not feeling well. But the naivete of these three youngsters was so deep and misguided, I felt i had to stay and talk with them.
“When you say, ‘Christ said this,’ you’re already misguided because Christ didn’t speak English,” I said. “It’s what we think Christ said. And the knowledge of Christ is deeper than any book. Jesus Christ didn’t come to the Earth to start Christianity. He came to show us how to live, and that transcends all religions. I don’t know any Christians who live like Christ lived.”
But the argument continued, and they were more interested in what Peter had to say, probably because they had no exposure to African-American thought on the subject. Or maybe they felt that if they focused their attention on him instead of me, they wouldn’t feel racist. I soon realized that my time with them was ending and that I had responsibilities to attend to. Without getting their names, I left, and insisted that we meet the following Thursday at 9 p.m. in the same spot. They agreed, and I knew I would see them again.
I was obsessed with the upcoming meeting and the potential for a real and progressive spiritual group to emerge from these discussions. Thursday arrived on schedule, which surprised me as I considered my exaggerated emphasis on the importance of this meeting to be a real time-stopper, as if the universe would end before the kind of knowledge we would discover could be unveiled to humanity. The world wasn’t ready for our minds!
I drafted some questions that I thought we be interesting for us to discuss and printed out about a dozen copies, with quotes from the Bible, the Qur’an and the Tao Te Ching. I made my way into the organic aisle of Kroger, eager to catch a glimpse of at least one of my former comrades. With me was a Muslim friend, and I knew he would be a welcomed addition to the discussion. As I turned the corner with much anticipation, at 9:05 p.m., my eyes saw only the products along the aisle and the glistening tile floor. Nobody was there.
I left knowing that it was probably for the best, as the spontaneity that inspired that moment with those strangers whose names I may never know existed in that one moment, like an improvised song that is impossible to recreate but permanently memorable.
I left the store with the stack of print-outs, still looking in the parking lot to see if perhaps someone was there, just running a bit late. Perhaps they came, most likely they didn’t. But I am positive that they will always remember the organic aisle at Kroger with a warmth and affection that no other grocery store section can compare.
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