A Rough Start

It was 5:00 am, before dawn, and I was sprawled out on the street.
Alcohol had nothing to do with my state. My head was clear, sober, at peace.
Shadow, a flat coated retriever trained as my service dog, lay warmly over the tops of my calves while I knelt and chalked the black asphalt. Two very small street lights, only slightly larger than strung Christmas bulbs, were my initial lighting.
The night before, I was scared and anxious. I took a hefty dose of Ambien and fell asleep thinking that I could be arrested the following day. I could be bossed and shuffled around. Perhaps, no one would talk to me. I might be dismissed as the lowest class of panhandler.
Even worse,  I might be mocked for the things I held closest in life. I imagined a crowd booing my choice of subject, insulting the Saints, the Church, the Faith. Objecting to the Baby Jesus' nakedness or the baldness of Saint Anthony's head.
The crazy thing was- not once did I doubt my ability to chalk paint. Outside of some hopscotch as a kid- I hadn't used chalk. I had a box filled with smaller boxes of chalk and pastels- bought with my ever diminishing resources- for over $125. I had never used pastels before. Teachers and fellow artists told me pastels were used too quickly and too expensive.
I wasn't the type to stand up for myself. The few acrylic paintings I did were with watered down student grade paint. Most of the recreational artwork I did was in the commonest ballpoint pen or a generic #2 pencil. 15 years of nuns and 5 years in the Army leaves you stripped of any high class, high minded exclusivity. I knew I was socially inept, middle aged, and poorly dressed. And that in the wee hours of morning, I'd be out on the cold pavement.
I sketched out a grid and the area's security rolled by on bicycle. "Oh! You're going to do this today!"
We had talked previously, since I was skittish about offending anyone in the Farmer's Market or Pearl Brewery district. I meekly affirmed this and shyly added that I had to build a portfolio some way.
It's funny to think of starting a BFA, applying as a raw freshman to be accepted or denied, after earning a BSN and professional license. I smiled. The guard smiled and said he'd be back to see the finished product.
The farmers and booth owners arrived as soon as the sun rose. I had picked a street barricaded off from traffic, but that didn't stop trucks and trailers from coming by, asserting their right to road space.
I was three hours into my drawing before someone asked me what I was doing.
The best thing about people talking down to you is that, as they start, they deliberately talk like idiots. It's one's own choice to be offended, or to politely reply in your own voice, speaking back at the instigator's rough level.  This eventually ruffles the feathers of the person who talks down to you, and they elevate their tone. I respond politely until the initial speaker raises her bar to her near educational status, and I remain polite for dwindling questions and comments. People are who they choose to be. More functionally, people are who they choose to see others.
I see others want to do right, find meaning and beauty in life, and give as generously as they have received. Whatever low opinions my first responders had of me were changed in light easy conversation and honest courtesy.
Customers began to arrive as the street was re-barricaded and chairs and tables set out.
I was the object of occasional curiosity until the whole painting was roughly blocked out. At that point, people began to stop, offer encouragement and opinions. I chalked in details with the tiny, pricey slivers of pastels, and then felt warm waves of acceptance and admiration.
And somehow, I felt- I knew- this was what I wanted and needed to be doing.