People Watching

Cradling a large sweet latte in my very cold hands, I inhaled the reviving aroma of coffee with a hint of caramel, and settled back into the armchair to engage in the elicit pleasure of people watching. The coffee shop was half full of a mixture of young mums meeting up for a slot of sanity, work colleagues talking over business strategies, or sharing the inside track and the latest gossip, and I guess a few lonely people eking out a large coffee, so that for a while they could be part of something with a dynamic for more than one.

As I scanned the room my mind wandered from person to person and table to table, I noticed a colourful slightly eccentric jacket a woman my age was wearing, and became absorbed in meaningless speculation over where it had come from. I was interrupted in my cosy contemplations by the jarring noise of china and metal clattering on a ceramic floor. There was a sudden suspension in everything, the pause lasting for a second, before the wave of conversation moved on again, leaving the tired looking waitress to clear up in obscurity, free from the momentary unwanted attention.

I started watching the only person who had carried on uninterrupted by the mini drama, a young woman completely absorbed by the content of her laptop. I studied her face, not at all concerned that she may notice because she was so fixed on her screen. She had bright intelligent eyes, and although she was lost to her task, her expression relayed a pleasure in what she was doing. As her hands occasionally flitted across the keys, there seemed an urgency in her work. I realised there was a partial reflection of the screen in the window to her left, and I found myself squinting and fiddling with my glasses, trying to glean anything that might tell me more about what was so important to her. After about thirty seconds, I realised she was running PowerPoint, and was so instantly pleased with myself I grinned. She has a presentation I thought triumphantly, so enjoying that I had managed to work out this detail of her life.

With unexpected abruptness she closed the laptop and looked up. I lowered my eyes to my shoes, and started sipping coffee. Feeling caught out in my scrutinizing, I slowly looked up making ready to grab for the paper on the next table if I felt I needed the cover. She was looking straight at me, and before I could look away she gave a broad engaging smile. “I have a big presentation this afternoon” she announced, as she stood and straightened her suit. “I’m venturing into strictly male territory, but I’m going fully armed, all weapons locked and loaded!” I felt my eyebrows rise towards my hairline and my eyes widen in slight alarm. Not just caught out in my snooping, but now a semi-accomplice in some kind of hi-tech wholesale massacre of men.

“Take it easy on them” I offered “I’m sure they have no idea what’s coming through the door!” “Oh I think your right” she almost giggled, “and I’m going to savour every moment. Destruction in my wake; Triumph in my hand!” She tossed her car keys in the air and grabbed them back to emphasis the point as she swept passed my table. “Well you go girl!” I quipped (In a semi-instructional way, this girl was clearly dangerous to know!) She flashed a parting grin in my direction and sailed out the door into the sunlight.

I cast my eyes cautiously around the room again – this could clearly be a dangerous occupation.
Karen Mehta 03-02-08

There was nothing remarkable about her, nothing that would make you notice her among other shoppers. Her clothes were a non-descript mixture of beige and black; not even a colourful scarf to break into the dullness of her appearance. Of average height and average build, with mousey brown hair and nothing interesting about her face she never stood out in a crowd. Even the way she moved with lethargic slowness spoke of nothing.
And then, there was her name: Brenda Smith. You can’t get much more unremarkable than that. She often wondered why her parents chose it for her. It was not a romantic name nor an adventurous one. You just do not fall dramatically in love with a girl call Brenda, not in her experience anyway.
Brendas do not change the world either.
Was it the name that dictated the course of her life?
Perhaps if she was named Clarissa, she might have married a rich banker or an artist. She might have been living a life of parties in a luxurious apartment somewhere in London. Shopping in Harrods and having lunches in those exclusive and terribly expensive restaurants.
Or, with a serious name like Janet, she might have been researching how to prevent the disappearing of bees. She would have been travelling giving lectures and awakening the awareness of scientists and politicians around the world. Important people would listen and respect her. She would have been given recognition and awards for her work.
But, no, she was named Brenda and she had been spending her life working in the local Council Offices without glamour or recognition.
It used to trouble her very much but now it does not seem to matter quite so much.
So, she boarded the bus home with her shopping of three pairs of black trousers and two beige cardigans. She won’t keep them all, of course. That’s the good thing about M&S: you can try clothes at home and take them back for a refund or exchange later.
For one mad moment she toyed with the idea of exchanging one of the cardigans for the emerald green top that caught her eye. But it was only for a very brief moment. Beige is so much more practical.
Yes, there was nothing remarkable about her, except….her unfulfilled dreams.

Exposition: Our first assignments

This is now month two of the Unique Exposition writing group and at our first meeting we were given a writing assignment. The challenge was to go to a coffee shop or a public place where we could observe someone incognito for five minutes, and then write about them and imagine something of the cicumstances of the next hour of their lives. During our meeting tonight we spent time reviewing and sharing our thoughts about each other's writing.

I encouraged the group to follow this simple acronym: WRITE.

To be warm, respectful, inquisitive, tentative and encouraging.

We were not "marking" each other's "work". We recognise that writing can evoke different responses from different people. We understand that our words and stories are part of us and yet separate from us. This reminds us to be rigorous with ourselves but gentle with others. As a wise man in my house says-if you have nothing positive to say....smile.

We read through the cameos and read out a favourite sentence, we reflected on our response to the way the author had drawn the character, the setting, the narrative, and our emotional response to the piece.

This is a scary experience to share our first attempts so over the next few days hopefully members of the group will venture forth and post their writing. So I will go first and introduce you to 'Tom' who I observed in a M1 motorway service cafe somewhere in the Leicestershire area on a return trip at the end of a long day.

As this is a blog with comment boxes we welcome you to follow our guidance and share your responses.

Tom sat comfortably in his world of rest. The headlines of the Independent were scrutinised then read. After a few minutes the paper was carefully folded and the next section deftly selected. Like a heat seeking missile Tom leafed through each section until he detected the sports pages. The cricket reviews were found and then read in depth.

Tom was sitting upright in the plastic motorway café chair. His dark donkey jacket was open revealing a red scarf warm over loosened shirt and tie. His dark, crumpled, three day worn end of Wednesday trousers bore the marks of long days spent on motorways and up and down office stairs. Legs are crossed; feet wear soft, black moccasins wide and worn, moulded by miles of steps. His cropped dark hair has strands of silver illuminated by the harsh fluorescent tubes of the service station lighting.

Latte in tall china cup is sipped over long intervals. The brown bag of crisps is slowly and steadily eaten without compulsion, all attention on the paper. Eyes remain locked on the report all distractions averted, Tom is oblivious as people scrape back chairs and sit in jovial groups with burgers and chips. The report is processed by diligent intelligent eyes; all actions are precise and measured with no excess.

A small white chocolate bar is opened. Snap as a slice is broken; chocolate, coffee, crisps, chocolate, coffee, crisps consumed as eyes remain on the paper. The chocolate is finished and the paper folded. Tom rises; he abandons the detritus of his motorway snack leaving half and inch of coffee in the white china cup.

Tom visits the toilets and washes his hands, a slim man in his mid forties who lives in a world of precision and ordered routines. As he walks towards his car he flicks the electronic key to the bleep as the car jumps like a loyal attentive servant. A quick glance at the windscreen and fuel as Tom slides into the seat. He estimates the time to get home and makes a mental note to turn on the news headlines in ten minutes time.

The car carefully navigates the exit route past the garage with overly inflated fuel, and slips into the stream of red and white snakes eyes and accelerates smoothly to seventy. Tom starts to think of home as he anticipates the enticing aroma of dinner with his wife and children. He will savour mundane details of everyday activities and the mini dramas that his sixteen year old daughter seems to constantly provide. He has already accumulated all the latest cricket scores and he will enjoy the post mortem of each innings with his son who is growing a love of the game to rival his own.

Jacqui Webber-Gant. January 2009

The Journey

Standing by the lake I am ready to walk. I’m hesitant, full of anxieties, but ready to go. The lake is not the beautiful place I had imagined, it is dark, flat and lifeless. Like a limp cloth, waiting for the wind to blow and bring it life. I feel a little shudder as a sudden breeze carried a light spray of rain, with a jolt I start walking.

The children chatter, running and laughing – tinkling wind chimes dancing in the breezy sunshine. It makes the walk easier, but still the lake seems dark. No memories of sights, sounds or smells, just the need to keep going.

Then the lake is gone and instead the tumbling of water over rocks and stones and through trees; echoing like the beating of a large empty drum, hollow, heavy and slow. The gradient immediately sharpens and sitting waiting in the path are the bags for the day, heavy with the things I think I need to carry. One sack I but on my back the other on my front – I’m looking for balance. I start to climb, but not alone. Its good to have someone to walk with, it makes it easier to keep going and carry the weight.

We all move forward heading for a peak we must get to, but do not know and cannot see yet. Then a sack is gone, taken by another who is willing to share the load. Although the path is steep the climb is easier now, I look back at the lake.

The perspective of distance has softened it and the occassional glint of sunshine brings light to it’s dark surface. I press on.

A sigh releases something inside and the second sack is lifted away. The climb tests my strength and endurance, but I am not alone and the struggle does not consume every sense. I have time to admire the beauty of the alpine flowers, so easily ignored and crushed underfoot – unoticed. I feel the gentle warm breeze hugging at the ground and taking the essence of this place over the crest of the mountain – life for where ever it blows.

We have climbed so high we are nearly at the peak. When I look back to the lake, it is full of the reflections of the mountains all around, and light bounces off its’ surface in all directions. I can see not just my mountain, my climb, but many others and the lake that was full of forboding, draining and lifeless - is beautiful.

Look at me - I'm the 'first follower'! I guess that means the rest of you had something better to do on a Sunday afternoon!! Still haven't done my 'assignment' yet, but am looking forward to a quieter week this week so I can fit it in. I enjoyed the extra word association that Jacqui sent, and I was a bit more imaginative this time. All good stuff, all making me think creatively again.

January: Our first gathering

A small group of us met, all a bit nervous about who would come and what we would be undertaking. I started by sharing my vision that this would be a group of people where we could:

•Find our voice
•Support and take an interest in each other's work
•Pray for and speak prophetically to each other
•Try something new
•Expect to change lives through the words we write and others read
•Grow in gifting and anointing
•Consider our audience and the different opportunities publish and share writing
•Welcome others to the group

We had a prompt sheet to find out where and what and how we write and to explore possible types and genres of writing we are interested in pursuing. We talked through what we had each recorded and as we reflected this gave a sense of some of the longer term projects that individuals could begin.

Next we played a word game intended to oil our vocabulary, and get our brains to work and with much hilarity began to see the unique take that we have on word associations.

Finally we were given two tasks to carry us through the next month. One was to make a start on our personal project and the other was to write a short cameo description of a stranger who we sit an observe in a public place for five minutes, so if you feel the gaze of observant eyes when you are packing your shopping or queing up to buy a stamp, be warned-you may be the subject of a piece of prose.

We closed our two hours together by writing and then reading a prayer for a member of the group, and in that short time together we already felt that we had connected and mutually encouraged each other to stretch and grow and expand our horizons.

This group is already growing as word gets out so if you think it may be for you then come along and give it a go. See you soon. Jacqui