"In poverty there is great wealth, and in wealth there is great poverty." —Epicurus
We fear that which we don't know or understand.
Meet Rich, my fear. Ruddy cheeks. 65, a shock of white hair. Baggy coat. Cranky. Always carries a shopping bag. Sometimes he talks to people who aren't there.
You will find him every morning in front of Peet's on Chestnut, starting at about 7:25. And he will remain there, or across the street, or one block down, until at least 11:30. He goes there to hunt. One espresso at a time, from the people walking by.
During my Peet's phase, I would see him. And like other "upstanding" citizens, I would avoid him. As I approached the cafe, I would speed up or slow down so that he would tag the person in front of me or to my side. If I didn't have human camouflage to hide behind, I would do the next best thing—turn the volume up on my iPod and pretend that I couldn't see or hear him.
It's appalling, I know. But it's what we humans do when we feel helpless and afraid.
One day I realized that my efforts to avoid this man that I feared were creating an unexpected compromise. My world was shrinking. My morning routine had become the victim of a stranger's comings and goings. I had to do something different.
So I pulled a Judo move.
The next time I saw him, I approached him. I offered to buy him a cup of coffee, and it stopped him in his tracks. Suddenly, the hunter became the hunted, and we were equals—except he declined my invitation. He had already reached his limit for the day.
This was the day that Rich became a person to me.
How wealthy are you?
