I walk out of my front door and down three steps, skipping the middle step. The steps are painted turquoise but much of the paint has chipped off. I wear tight jeans and my black and red sweatshirt. I walk past the mosaic I made on my front walkway, and I notice the shiny green tiles with edges sharp enough to slice a tiny knee. When the weather is warm I will fill the sharp spaces on the mosaic with grout, as I have been meaning to do. Then it will be safer.
I turn left down the sidewalk and meander through the neighborhood for three blocks, until I get to the big, four lane road. I push the ‘walk’ button but I don’t wait for the light. Instead, I dash across the road when there are no cars coming. I walk past a small tire market and a sinkhole in the sidewalk, until I arrive at a brick building and a door to a tiny, unmarked hummus shop.
My work mate is already there and greets me with the same five words and the same accent as he does every day: “Hi Brooke! How you doing?” He’s been grinding chick peas alone for 30 minutes and my presence perks him up. I take over grinding while he moves toward the mixer. After enough time grinding and mixing, we have six huge buckets of hummus, ready to be packed into 8oz containers. He pours while I secure a lid on each one. We work fast but we don’t make a mess, he doesn’t like messes. We exchange a few words, sometimes about things like how my seven year old just lost his first tooth. Sometimes about painful things like the war in Ukraine, or how his country of origin committed atrocities against a neighboring country when he was young. Sometimes we are both tired at work because the troubles of life keeps our minds awake in the dark hours of night. Most of the time though, we feel good. Mostly we work under the beat of Bob Marley or Tom Petty and we let our mouths take a break from talking. Our work is repetitive and in this way it is a meditation for us both. We are a two person factory line creating food for the community. Our hands meditate and our minds follow.
The earthy smell of hummus fills the air and after a few hours we stop for five minutes to eat pickles, warm pita, and hummus with olive oil drizzled on. Nearly everyday we eat the hummus.
My work mate leaves around midday and I am alone in a small room, only the sound of a humming refrigerator remains. The sun has shifted and the room has a softer glow of light now. I sit for 45 minutes putting labels on containers. My body is getting tired after three hours on my feet, but my mind is calm and wanders happily to my children, my lover, my friends. I wonder what they are doing at this moment.
There was a time when I worked in a office. In this little yellow room, the world is still and I feel peaceful, as my hands do work of making and packaging food. My ego sometimes whispers things to me, things about how it’s about time to get back to an office job, the kind of job you are supposed to do. The kind of job your teachers told you you can dream of, because you can be anything you want to be when you are older.
My hands are busy working, and my heart is joyful. That is what I want to be when I am older; joyful.
