Moving over.

I was sitting on a bench in front of several elevators, impatiently waiting for my math professor to call me into her office.

Students were shuffling all about. Some were madly dashing off to class. Others were socializing with friends. That's when I saw her.

She appeared forlorn and weary as she was carrying several bags. She stumbled off the middle elevator and set her bag down on the seat and looked at me, silently pleading for more room.

Inwardly, I sighed. This always happens to me. The bench was definitely big enough for her to sit down and rest, but I was sprawled everywhere and really didn't feel like making room for her. Afterall, there were five other benches nearby. Couldn't she just chose one of those? Couldn't she see that I was stressed out? I nervously flipped my phone around (yes, I sometimes I pretend to text during awkward situations), glancing at her every few seconds. Her dark, piercing eyes and weary face eagerly waited for me to give an answer. Something inside me softened and I moved.

With that over, I contemplated a way to get off the bench. My professor wasn't ready to see me. There was a line for the bathroom and my next class wasn't for several hours. I didn't want to walk down several flights of stairs to find another seat and moving to the other side of the hall would have been insulting. Stuck, I decided to perch my head up, pretending to sleep. She wasn't fooled and there was nothing that could prepare me for what was coming. Not only did this lady want to sit, she wanted to talk. To me. She wanted to talk about real stuff too. She inquired about my major. Where I wanted to go in life. What I planned on doing in the next year. Where I was from. What I enjoyed. This lady wanted the real deal.

Goodness gracious, moving my bag was already a hassle. I was stressed about a math exam and another Arabic quiz later in the afternoon and detailing my life point-by-point wasn't exactly what I wanted to do that moment. I felt a stab of guilt and I inquired about her life. In a rather thick accent, she explained that she was currently obtaining her second bachelor's degree. She loved math and science and English was her third language. Her first two languages? Arabic and French. I tried restraining the rising tide of curiosity, but it was no use. I love France - she lived there for several years. I wanted to study in Lebanon for an extended amount of time - she was born and raised there.

Continuing in a soft voice, she explained the struggle that ensued just to obtain her first degree. In addition, she explained, her Arab origins didn't help when it came to making friends. Americans are too judgmental regarding the Arabs, she reasoned. They have too many stereotypes about us and it makes it hard to develop friendships, she concluded.

My sour attitude melted away. Suddenly I was glad I had given her room to sit down and lent her my ear. We continued chatting for a while longer. Eventually, I glanced at my watch and realized the time: 12:45. Where had the time gone? My professor was waiting and she had to scoot off to a meeting. As she stood up to leave, she grasped my hand. Thank you, she said. I smiled and suddenly, she was gone.

I don't know if I'll ever see her again, but my new friend taught me a bit about life in thirty minutes. Walking down the hall to my professor's office, a million thoughts flooded my mind.

Lilas Trotter once said,

“[The] dandelion has long ago surrendered its golden petals, and has reached its crowing stage of dying – the delicate seed-globe must break up now – it gives and gives till it has nothing left. There is no sense of wrenching: it stands ready, holding up its little life, not knowing when or where or how the wind bloweth where it listeth may carry it away. It holds itself no longer for its own keeping, only as something to be given..."

An introvert at times, I tend to shy away from unfamiliar situations and meeting people. Sometimes it's because I lack the time or I'm simply not interested in developing new relationships. Other times, I'm afraid of getting hurt. But today I realized you can't live like that. Life is about looking for the worn and hurt. For those who need a sympathetic ear. For the men and women who are suffering. For the children who have no friends. Life is about find those people, moving your "stuff" and making room for them.

(photo: zagreb, croatia.)