Peering down from my kitchen window you see the market. Every day this young mom hauls two buckets to a small spot on a concrete slab. Moving away the clutter and rubbish she clears a temporary workspace. Her children bounce, tumble and play while she scoops.
First the small plastic cups are half filled with jello, always red. Carefully lined on a tray they await their cap of homemade cream. The huge whisk with the wooden handle attests to strong forearms due to much time passed whipping the heavy, white, milky liquid to a sweet, firm, fluff. Balancing the tray on her shoulder with one hand she sells the treat to vendors and shoppers.
I ask myself questions as I spy into her life through the lens of a camera that probably cost more than she will make even after a year of selling jello and cream.
Would I have the tenacity to sell jello and cream every morning if that was what I had to do to keep my children fed?
What hopes lie in the heart of this woman?
Why do I let spirits of worry, complaining, or envy settle in my soul when my neighbor lives day to day on the coins she collects?