Redefining Richness.

There is a dollar bill on the sidewalk on a busy road on my walk to work. Every day I note its shine and texture, preserved like a book-pressed leaf by the pressure of countless pairs of walking shoes. Also notable is the fact that several children play tirelessly on this road; several runners run; several college students pass by it, carrying heavy laptop bags and heavy shoulders and the same heavy, tired-but-thankful eyelids as me. Their expressions are the same as mine: A melding of anxiety and bliss; the strange marriage of polarities that is constantly at work in the mind of an individual who lacks monetary solidity. We make love to the freedom of uncertainty, cure it when the honeymoon wears off, and alternately both love and hate the cycle (but we can not afford a divorce). The homeless folk on Pearl Street to whom I surrender many dollars have similar expressions, depending on the state of poverty they are in. If these souls ventured just three blocks North, they'd easily spot the dollar bill burning greenly against the pavement like a flag. With little effort at all, anyone could peel it up and put it in their pocket.

But no one does.

. . .

My first week in Boulder, I managed to land a job at the same bustling downtown coffee shop my favorite book store is attached to. I was thankful, excited, and eager to start. Making espresso, to me, is a form of art: The 'whir' of the grinder, the subtle flip of the wrist to extract the perfect shot, the sensitivity required to coax the steaming milk into a velvety, shaving-cream-consistency; The intuition required to work around four other people in a heavy rush, each body silently communicating to the other: a symphony of movement. A silent dance. The work does not pay well, but there is poetry in it; there is art; a richness in getting up and walking to work when dawn is still just a bruise; being the first face a sleepy individual sees when they walk in and, in their tiredness, unveil themselves to you through stories of a lost baby or work frustration or recent divorce. I am in love with this experience; the freedom in expressing myself verbally without judgment; the freedom to show my tattoos and piercings and newly-stretched lobes with no disagreement from bosses, because it is my job description to be funky and unique and artistic...and despite the insistent call of adulthood to "get a real job," I am not finished with this experience yet.

The only time the poetry fades for this Barista is during the holidays. Downtown Boulder, in these months, explodes with commerce, and all the stress and demand that come along with it is conveyed through the eyes and mouths of every shopper to every service worker on the main drag (I am exaggerating, but not by much). Black Friday was the first day in my new home that I truly felt terrible. After seven hours of straight running, bending, lifting, charming, failing, and spinning in circles to please my customers with no break, I was physically exhausted in a way I'd never been. Limping out of the building into the icy dark with several miles of walking ahead of me, I checked my tips and noted their inadequacy compared to the amount of effort I'd exerted. I walked down Pearl, still buzzing with wealthy shoppers, and I fought back the familiar sting of both tears and (guiltily) envy.

Not wanting to quite go home yet, I found myself wandering Pearl Street in search of something beautiful to cheer me up. I fingered my cold ears, the flesh straining against the small crystals I’d inserted, now completely healed. I had not purchased a gift for myself since arriving, and decided it was about time.

Across the street from my café is a small import store owned by beautiful bohemian women with long dresses and kind eyes. Walking through the threshold, I was enveloped in the warm scent of cedar and sandalwood, bold Indian-inspired garments subdued by caramel-colored lighting, and a woman who’s knotted and feather-laden hair reminded me of Willow trees and forest moss. I looked through the gauged earrings she had for sale, falling in love with a pair of white bone spirals far too big for my small lobes.

“I could stretch them for you right now, if you want to save some money,” she said, her voice bringing to mind string instruments and honey and all other things that take their time. She smiled with equal warmth: “It could be a ritual. Every moment of every day should be a ritual, you know. That’s how we make our lives rich.”

I liked this. “Alright,” I agreed, “But if this is a ritual, I should know your name.
“Lisa,” she said.
“Funny! I’m Lee-a,” I replied, rhyming the syllables, enjoying the similarity, the poetry of our names.
“Perfect!” she giggled, taking my hand. “I have a handshake for “L’s.” Moving our fingers together in shapes, she made a triangle, then a diamond, then a heart, and hugged me. It was the first hug I’d received in a long while. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d been until that moment. Thankful tears stung the corners of my eyes, then blinked away.

Lisa took the earring and rubbed it with a hemp salve. “Very healing,” she assured me, and in two swift and gentle tugs, the gauges were in place with no pain whatsoever. “Beautiful,” she said. “Like a warrior.”

Walking home in the dark, I watched the mountains like black paper cutouts against the navy backdrop of sky, both glittering with hole-punched light: One with the scattered glow of mountainside porch lights, one with stars. I contemplated what it meant to be “rich,” deciding that my original definition—that richness is measured in sincere life experiences, not necessarily in dollars accumulated—was still my more preferred one of the two. I walked slowly, intentionally, defining and redefining familiar words: “Freedom.” “Wild.” “Sincerity.” “Resolve.”

Turning the bend on the last block to my house, thinking about the dollar bill stamped into the sidewalk which was now nothing more than a suggestion of currency in dim light, I heard footsteps to the left, not quite human; and not ten feet in front of me, a buck walked so nonchalantly I might have mistaken him for a shadow, if not for his startling weight. Shocked, awed, I froze in my tracks and watched as the animal—his antlers exceeding me in height—barely acknowledged my presence and walked, carelessly, freely, right over that dollar bill.

The black marbles of his eyes did not acknowledge the green of it, glowing in the halogen streetlamp like an emerald.
He did not even look down.