Dancing In The Rain

11/14

I take the plastic holy card out of my wallet.

I keep it tucked in there
between the other bits and pieces of my life
that I’m not sure what to do with.

There is a picture of St. Francis on the front,
The saint of peace and love.
The one I chose because in the end
I made all the choices.

I don’t look at it often.
Generally only on this day.

I feel the sadness and the tears come.
I don’t know why.
I have lost so many others
And I have no tears for them.

Maybe it’s because I was there
and saw the breath leave your body.
Or maybe I still grieve
what  never was
and should have been.

I turn the card over.
On the back – a prayer.
“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.”

I have made my peace with you
and that’s a blessing.
But the lost years of my life,
Ah, now that’s a different story.

One of my all-time favorite old TV programs is “The Honeymooners”.  I think I’ve seen every episode dozens of times.  In one of them, Ralph decides to make a list of his good “pernts” and bad “pernts”.  After my first husband died and I was left feeling crushed and helpless, unable to cope with the smallest problem, I decided to make a list like that myself.  I thought it might help me find a way out of the black hole my life had become. Except I left out the bad “pernts”.  For too many years, I had been reminded on a daily basis of just what they were.  I needed to figure out what were the good parts of me that had helped me survive.

Over the years, I’ve added to the list, though not just things that helped me survive.  Now I look for what about me makes me happy or special or creative.  And I’ve also been able to look at the bad “pernts”, the real one, the ones that hold me back from becoming everything I am meant to be.  But the core list remains the same.  These are the parts of who I am that kept me alive.

OPTIMIST – Sometimes it takes me awhile, but I always find the silver lining, the lemonade, the sunny side of the street.  Times when I was deep in depression, I knew that there was a way out if I just hung on long enough.

EMPATHETIC – I’ve always been able to imagine what it feels like to be in someone else’s shoes.  I can’t remain angry or judgmental for long because of that.  Often when my late husband was at his meanest I would wonder what happened to him to make him treat anyone, let alone someone he supposedly loved, that way.  Even as he hurt me, I could see his pain behind the anger.

WILLING TO FORGIVE – I learned early that it is exhausting to stay angry or carry a grudge.  Hanging on to that anger only keeps the hurt alive.  It feeds it.  One of the first things I did after my husband died was forgive him.  It’s what gave me my freedom.

HUMOR – I can find humor in anything.  Not that I diminish the seriousness or sadness or even horror in life.  But if you dwell on those things, you’ll never make it.  And if you can’t laugh at yourself, you’re lost.

I don’t know if I was born this way (apologies to Lady Gaga) or if I developed these abilities as survival tactics.  However I became the person I am doesn’t matter.  What does matter is that it got me here to a place where I’m happy.  And for that, I’m grateful.

My Happy Garden Spirit.
I always thought it looked like Jackie Gleason’s Man In The Moon face.

Today was one of those days that make it hard to write about being grateful.   Let’s start with what I woke up to this morning.

Yes, I know, very pretty – first snow of the year. All I see is delays; on the road and on the trains.

Sure enough, I head out on my daily commute and when I get to the highway, traffic is crawling.  It’s like everyone is thinking “Oh my God!  What is this stuff?  I’ve lived my whole life in the Sahara and I’ve never seen this before.  I’d better drive rrreeaallyy slow.”  It’s snow, people.  This is New England.  It snows here.  Keep in mind that these are the same people who, in very short time, will be driving through blizzards like Mario Andretti at the Indy 500.  But right now, they are stunned stupid by these little, fluffy flakes that melt before they even hit the road.

So a trip that should only take 45 minutes takes an hour and 15 minutes.  I miss my train. That’s OK.  At this hour the trains run every 15 to 20 minutes.  Then they announce that “because of slippery rails, trains are running  15 to 20 minutes late.”   Thanks again snow.  OK, so I have to wait a little longer.  I’m already at the far end of the platform and I don’t feel  like walking all the way back to the covered  crossover to keep warm.  Besides, it’s not so bad  out.   I forget about wind chill.   By the time the whatever:15  to Grand Central  arrives, I’m a commuter flavored Popsicle.

I have no  idea which train it is but it’s headed in the right direction and it’s warm inside.  The conductor announces that it is the local. Great.  That means we make all stops between here and White Plains.  Well, I’m already close to an hour late, what’s another 20 minutes.  So I settle in and open my IPad.  We move along at a pretty good pace until we hit Pleasantville.  I’m absorbed in my reading, so it’s a few minutes before I realize we’ve been in the station for quite some time.  I’ve got my earbuds in, so I pull one out in case there are any announcements and I hear the dreaded “we are being held in the station”.  Shit, now what.  So I wait.   And I wait.   Finally, another announcement. “There is police activity up ahead.  We are being held here indefinitely folks”,  followed by a collective groan from my fellow prisoners.    A moment later, a train slowly pulls in on the opposite track.  “That train is headed back north, folks.  We will open the doors and anyone who wants to head back home can  get on it.”  For a brief moment, I consider the possibility but I have deadlines to meet and that annoying responsibility thing kicks in.  The doors open and a stampede of people head for the homeward bound express..  I look around.  Only a few determined souls stick it out with  me.

The minutes tick by and I’m beginning to think I’ve made a horrible mistake.  My IPad has died and I have no charger with me.  I used my smart phone to text my office about my predicament so I turn it off because I don’t want to run that down too.  In case I have to call for help.  I’m just starting to contemplate making a run for it if they open the doors again, when the train jolts to a start.  I think a silent “Yeah!!” and congratulate myself for sticking it out.

We inch toward Manhattan.  I have no IPad, No smart phone.  I have read everything I have with me.  I have made notes and jotted down ideas.  There is nothing left to do, nothing to keep me occupied.  With each, slow, painful mile, I am getting more and more stressed.  I will be lucky if I get to the office by noon.  That means that I will have been on the road for five hours.  I have so much to do when I get there.  I’ll never get it all done on time.  Damn Metro North.  Damn the snow.  Damn police activity.

I am so annoyed and upset that I don’t notice at first that we are approaching the City.  And then suddenly, we are on the bridge, crossing the Harlem River.  I look out the window and my jaw drops.  There, on top of a building is a huge sign.  It has to be 50 feet wide. And in giant block letters it reads GRATITUDE.  I pass this way twice a day, five times a week, and I have never seen this sign before.

The sign is on top of the white building.

Immediate attitude adjustment.

I got to work late, but I got there safe, so for that, I’m grateful.

I finished everything I needed to meet my deadline and didn’t have to stay late, so for that, I’m grateful.

And the Universe found a way to slap me in the face and say “Snap out of it”, so for that, I’m grateful.

My father served in the Army Corp of Engineers.  I never really thought about what he might have experienced in WWII.

I went to college with guys who served in Viet Nam.  Most of them came back pretty messed up.  They were stoned most of the time and talked about horrible things in a flat monotone.  And nobody ever though to thank them.  They were the enemy.

A few years ago, my husband and I were in a restaurant and an older couple came in with a young man in uniform.  It was obvious he was their son.  When we left, we went up to them.  The young man immediately stood.  My husband shook his hand and thanked him for his service.  I’ll never forget the look of love and pride on his parents face.  And he was just a baby.  I don’t mean that in a derogatory manner.  I mean he hadn’t even started life yet and God knows what he had or was  soon to see.

I can’t believe there was ever a time when I thought nothing of these mostly young people who put their lives on the line for us everyday.  Maybe Jack Nicholson was right when he said “You can’t handle the truth.”

I go out of my way now to thank anyone in uniform.  They and their families sacrifice so much for all of us, people they don’t even  know.  And for that I am grateful.

This morning I left the house a little earlier so I could vote.  We have a hotly contested race for First Selectman here in my little piece of Connecticut.  There was a time not too long ago when I could have cared less.  The Democratic process in this country was a mess as far as I was concerned.  What difference did it make who was in office.  It was all a bunch of crap anyway.

When I was younger (much younger) I was a part of the protest generation.  We took our politics very seriously.  We could organize a protest at the drop of a bandana.  I even helped put together a “pray-in” in our school chapel to protest the threatened expulsion of a classmate.  (Hey, it was a girl’s parochial school.  You have to fight ’em on their own turf.)  I campaigned for candidates.  I was proud to vote in the first Presidential Election after the voting age was lowered.  I believed we could change everything.

That’s youth – you believe in your own power to do anything.  Eventually, like it was for many my age, disillusionment set in.  I stuck my head in the sand and said “Screw you.  I’m out of this.”  But recently, I’ve come to see that is what much of the problem is with politics in this country.  Too many of the thoughtful, fair, even-handed people have sat on the sidelines for too long and let the stubborn loudmouths take charge.

S0 today I am thankful that I have the right, the duty to  make my voice heard.  I may never again sit cross-legged on the floor singing “We Shall Overcome” , but I will never take for granted my freedom to vote for what I believe in.