I got a strange message the other day from someone who was likely insane.

I think it is important to listen to the odd, the outcast, and the questionably sane. The reason for this is simple. Their viewpoint of the world, its systems, and its inhabitants is often more pure. In many ways they are looking from the outside in, which almost always provides a more enlightened vantage point. Unobstructed by the flow of society. Unpolluted by pride. Aware of the truth of hard knocks and no stranger to suffering. They come from a standpoint so different I might dare to call it at times clearer, stronger, and more aware of the truths of life. The things they see that make us think they are crazy, might be things on a plane so real, yet invisible to the rest of us. The rest of “functioning society” is so caught up in their ways, so sure of their methods, so cushioned and well-fed and comfortable that their viewpoint on life is often from a place I do not ever wish to go.

And then, oftentimes they really are just crazy. But this is highly entertaining anyway so I always come out of it with something to take home. I always learn something, even if it is just to never again let someone in the park touch my feet.

Running into people who are questionably sane is not uncommon in Minneapolis. Blocks from my house is East Lake Street, upon which crawls and lounges a people group intent on spending their days doing not much of anything except surviving: scavenging for their next meal or screw or high. A three block walk on this street will provide for me a half dozen propositions to turn down or accept, from the slightly lewd to the interesting to the reasonable to the downright obscene.

But this day I was not on East Lake Street. I was at Lake Calhoun. My husband and I were taking a walk, talking about life plans as we so love to do, and we decided to sit down on a bench overlooking the lake so we could enjoy watching the people walk, jog, and suffer by while we passed casual judgment on them. People-watching may be my favorite thing to do outside of reading and writing stories. I am certainly no people person, but I find them quite useful in regard to providing me entertainment.

After indulging in the sight of a very fit gay man (Jesse informed me of his orientation for I am oblivious to such things) covered from head to toe in a sheen of sweat, wearing only a tiny strip of cloth you could barely call shorts, jog by… an anorexic woman diligently working off bone mass because her fat and muscle were both long gone … macho muscle-clad guys that likely only emerge from the gym for a jog to show us their hard work… a seventy-something man wearing a speedo (that one was fun but Jesse disagreed) … and a wide assortment of couples walking either a beloved dog on a leash or an equally beloved child in a stroller…

And then we spotted him.

He was making his way down the path. A young black man. He was neither dirty nor ragged looking. He was well dressed in a red letter jacket and designer jeans. He gave no outward sign of being insane at first. He had a set of green headphones in his ears and he was carrying on a very loud and animated conversation. And he was walking straight toward us.

My husband does not share my love of conversing with or even being in the general vicinity of the questionably sane. He stiffened when he realized that the man was approaching us, still carrying on with his very intense conversation. As we heard more of what he was saying it became clear that he was not talking to someone else via a blue tooth device, but to himself… or as my husband put it: To all of the other people in his head. There was not a pause in his yammering and we could now hear, as he got closer, that much of it was indecipherable, a mix of random English words and gibberish, all crammed together in one giant run-on that made no sense at all.

The man walked straight up to us and stopped in front of us, talking away. Jesse looked at me, horrified, and asked should we leave? I said no for two reasons: I wanted to see what was going to happen and I also thought that if we got up at this point, the man would surely follow us and we may not be able to shake him after that. It was clear he was drawn to us for some reason. But he was making no attempt at speaking with us for his personal conversation was still going full-throttle. Jesse marvels at my ability to attract these types of people. I’m not quite sure how it happens either but I delight in it nonetheless, calling it an asset.

We watched him as he began to smooth out the dirt on the ground in front of us with his clean shoe. This production went on for a seemingly long confusing time. He smoothed the entire area in front of us until it was a perfect canvas. He bent down and picked up a stick and suddenly I knew exactly what he planned to do. I pictured the scene from the bible where Jesus came upon the religious fanatics preparing to stone the married woman who was caught in another man’s bed. They asked him what they should do, if it was right for them to kill her for her adultery. And instead of answering right away Jesus bent down and picked up a stick and began to write in the dirt with it. No one knows exactly why he did this but it is supposed that he was buying some time to think or to pray before answering. He finally rose to challenge the evil men that they were free to kill her as long as one man without a sin on his heart threw the first stone at her. They all walked away.

Now the crazy man, still babbling incessantly, incoherently, began to write. My heart was racing. I was so excited with curiosity. These are the kinds of bizarre experiences I live for. What was he about to write? Would it be gibberish as well or would it be a message? Perhaps even a message from God. (Jesse later scoffed at this last and I argued that if he had so many voices in his head, why wouldn’t one of them be God’s? I helpfully reminded him that most prophets are written off as crazy. Remember John the Baptist? Total loon at first glance.)

The man wrote and talked and wrote and talked. Finally, when his work was complete he stood up and lingered for a few more moments, glancing our way here and there. Finally he wandered off, the talking never skipping a beat. Only then did I allow myself to look at what he had written. I love the big reveal. I have great restraint when it comes to this. I never do anything to compromise my delight in a surprise.

Written on the ground in large perfect letters, directly in front of where we sat as if it was intended solely for us, was the word

 

POCAHONTAS

 

I was amazed at the perfect lettering and proper spelling (especially considering he wrote the entire thing upside down!). I immediately tried to decipher the meaning. Was it a message? I recounted what I knew of the story while Jesse shrugged me off, unable to look beyond the deliverer. He was crazy, so how could this be anything but a random weirdo engaging in random weirdness? He assumed it was my hair and exotic look that urged the man to write what he did- that I simply reminded him of the native beauty in the stories. But I was unwilling to let go of the possibility that there was a deeper message, a bigger mystery.

I have stashed the incident away in my library of wonderfully strange and curious experiences. I plan to write a book one day of all of my curiously bizarre encounters with people such as this. I have many. One day perhaps some prophecy will be revealed. Or maybe it will always remain just a good story. But either way, I will never stop seeking out the entertaining and oftentimes enlightening Advice of the Questionably Sane.

 

 

 

 

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