Treasure

First I walk, then I run, Another Late night spent among real friends but soon enough early morning comes again. Hair brush, make up, purse all stuffed into my bag, no time for breakfast or a quick TV fix. IPod on, ear plugs in, door slammed behind.

I cannot break the habit. The bus is in sight; my shoe goes flying behind me as I catch my step.  Travelers begin queuing to get there ticket and take turns paying the unshaven driver, underpaid, under appreciated.
 we're all in the same boat.
 Holding the shoe and purse in one hand and my unkempt shoulder bag I run to the driver, dragging in breathes,waving my crumpled ticket. Once again my Luck precedes me.

The bus is packed, school kids, teenage mothers, old age pensioners and buggies everywhere. One seat left for me, until the next stop, I stand and an old man with a red and white knitted hat takes my place. Plugged out of reality I go to my own place, a beauty amongst the sweaty arms holding on for dear life to yellow painted poles placed in tedious places as the bus swerves and shakes. We stop again; I look out the window and what do I see… no popcorn popping just a man eating safety glass on the floor, I blink again, still there. Punched in glass off an advert board at the bus stop, cigarette holes burned into another, glass everywhere.

We are somewhere else now, A green pumpkin is rolling down the side of the road a man follows it, trying to grab at it, faithfully it continues to  rolls down the road.

Another bus, another queue but it’s there and so am I too, purse out, head phones off, wouldn’t it be nice… to be a red double Decker, but business blue for a town that does not care. Less people sit upstairs, a snoozing women on the left, a chubby bold man at the back, and a cowboy near the front.
 I take a place somewhere in the middle. So tired so bored, where’s my lunch? *sigh* what am I doing here...

Who is this cowboy? Cowboy Boots, Cow boy Hat, Bolo, he’s kitted up.  Thick accent… Is he American?

 A little portable radio is strapped to his waist, Country music, what else. Foreigners are the norm but this one is a character. I watch hypnotized by his lulling country notes, from nowhere he pulls out a bulky white tube sock, he’s humming along now. His wrinkled hand snakes its way to the bottom of the sock clasping the bulk, stuck like a monkey trap, his other hand peels away the sock and a treasure is revealed. I scour the bus, am I the only one seeing this, this is real. His eyes sparkle with the reflection of a beautiful clear cut crystal sitting in the grasp of his big boned hands. I remember to breathe once more. The dull white sock resting on his lap gets swooped up and suddenly it becomes a polishing cloth. Despite the tattered appearance of the sock it encourages more light to hit its pure stunning face and beautify the dull space of the cankering bus.

How can such beauty be found amongst such dull nothingness?

It can’t be true.

Can it?

Matthew 6:20-21

lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.