Whose Bench Is It Anyway?

 

Have you ever noticed how uncomfortable everyone is on the first morning of a two-day course? How awkward the first half-day is as we all get settled and suss out our classmates? The next morning, we each make a beeline for the exact spot we claimed the day before – and panic when the instructor spontaneously rearranges the seating.

Humans are apparently territorial. Every time I visit the park, I sit on the same bench. I even refer to it as “my bench.” Last week, I spied cherry stones scattered in the grass near my feet and immediately wondered, somewhat resentfully, who had been sitting on my bench. Today I arrived to find a paperback novel had been left on the seat – a James Patterson, though I don’t recall the title. Seeing it gave me pause; I actually hesitated before reminding myself this is my bench, goldarnit, so I’m a-sittin’ on it.

So I did.

As I sat there, I wondered how many other people consider the bench to be theirs. It is public property. Anyone can sit on it and for as long as they like, to boot. No one can claim it for their very own. I’ve been lucky having it to myself on a Sunday morning. I won’t mind sharing if I’m there first, but if someone else is there when I round the corner, I’ll keep walking. I go there to meditate, after all, so why disrupt someone else on a principle that won’t stand up in court?

There’s a plaque on this particular bench. It’s placed in memory of a fellow named Timothy, who perished before his time as a victim of foul play (so says the marker). Whether the bench is occupied or not, the plaque is always there. Maybe whoever ate the cherries thinks of the bench as theirs. Same for whoever forgot to take their book when they left. I don’t think of it as mine, anymore.

It belongs to Timothy.