It's rare for me to leave the property any more. I truly to love the quiet and solitude. I suppose I could accurately be called a hermit.

But sometimes I must, and yesterday was one of those days. My ReadID driver's license had expired and I made an appointment to get a new one at the DMV.

I think DMV offices must be universal in their designs to optimize suffering. Either that, or universal in their designs to minimize the suffering when throngs of people descend into the same location vying for a rare commodity; in this case, service.

I expected to feel overwhelmed in the presence of so many people, particularly here, where a quiet misery can sometimes exert pressure which erupts out from some in unpredictable ways.

But none of that happened. You could sense the simmering stress in some, but most had an almost zen-like reserve of calmness. Even the two people who were obviously agitated experiencing bureaucratic roadblocks from clerks were remarkably generous in their understanding that it was a systemic issue rather than a personal one.

I didn't expect this. And as I looked around more, I began to see the lives of people that trail behind their arrival here and what might be written upon their so varied and beautiful faces. It reminded me of why I once lived in cities.

Seeing so many arrive. Seeing so many go. Every one deserves a poem.

And on the ride back home, through farms across the Kent valley, my driver shared so much with me about his travels from India to the United States, his family he left behind, the money he earns and sends back, and current popular music he likes best from the Punjab. His friends. His hopes. And his fears. He was the antidote that cleansed the slightest hint of bad left from the DMV office stay. And today there is nothing I hope for more than his happiness.

So as it was, it was not nearly as bad as I dreaded in the future for days. And as it is, I couldn't imagine a better experience tempered with such richness of heart.