Soundtracks Of My Tears
In focusing on the small joys of life, there is no doubt about the delight I get in hearing a sparkling, happy song. All I need is to hear “I’m A Believer” or “Walking On Sunshine” or The Rascal’s “Good Lovin'” and my butt starts bouncing and I’m set for the day.
However – there is also something wonderfully comforting about a heart-wrenching sad song.
I love a song that can bring tears to my eyes.
When I was a little kid, I had no understanding of romantic love and heartbreak, but there were still sad emotions that I could identify with.
I think the first song that really moved me was Brenda Lee’s “I’m Sorry” in 1960. I was nine. Although I didn’t identify with lovers’ quarrels, I certainly could understand how it feels to do something wrong. To know something is your fault and to feel terrible. And in this way, I “got” the song. And to this day, I love hearing it.
Even a child can truly feel the emotion of loneliness. I had the most amazing, happy family a kid could have, but even the thought of losing them was a terrifying idea. Bobby Vinton’s “Mr.Lonely”– a soldier, alone and frightened – could bring me to tears when I was eleven, and it still can today.
That same year, I also had my first inkling of the painful side of romantic love. Not because I had any experience at all, but because the emotion was so raw and so clear that even a child could feel the heartbreak. It was “You Don’t Know Me” by Ray Charles. “You give your hand to me. And then you say goodbye. I watch you walk away…” I wanted to shout “Tell her! Tell her you love her!” How I love that song – how I love a song that makes me so filled with empathy.
And of course there is Smokey Robinson with “The Tracks Of My Tears.” Holy cow, that man could write a song. I love all the versions of this song – Smokey’s, Johnny River’s, Linda Ronstadt’s.
And speaking of Linda Ronstadt – Lord, how she can tear at my soul. I’ve been crying over “Long, Long Time” for 47 years.
Another singer who ripped me apart with his plaintive songs was Glen Campbell. In the middle and late sixties, he could always be counted on for the sweet sorrow in his voice – mourning the end of love with “By The Time I Get To Phoenix” or the simple everyday loneliness of “Wichita Lineman.” And most of all, with the lonely and frightened soldier (yes, again) of the heart-wrenching “Galveston.”
There’s something especially poignant for me with songs of soldiers and war if they are individual and personal. I’m not much on the grand global view. The songs that make me cry are the ones that show how war hurts one person, one family. Like in “Galveston” or “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town”. And one morning in 2002, my radio clicked on, and the first thing I heard was The Dixie Chicks’ “Travelin’ Soldier” – I lay in bed and felt that little girl cry under the grandstand at the football game. I just played that song again now as I write this, and I am crying again.
Social Consciousness songs can move me too, though like with war songs, the ones that move me are the small, personal heartbreak ones…Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” or Springsteen’s “The Streets Of Philadelphia.”
And of course, there’s Love and the Loss of Love. Now that I am old, and I have felt it for myself – and felt it all around me – the sorrow, regret, and heartache that often accompany love assaults my heart in the best way. There is an eloquence in the best of the sad songs that leaves me wondrously breathless. Some of these songs I love to cry to include
Carly Simon- “That’s The Way I Always Heard It Should Be”
Jim Croce – “Operator”
The Eagles “You Get The Best of My Love”
Dusty Springfield “You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me”
Toni Braxton – “Unbreak My Heart”
Little Texas – “What Might Have Been”
Bonnie Raitt – “I Can’t Make You Love Me”
R.E.M. “Everybody Hurts”
Hootie and the Blowfish – “Let Her Cry”
Adele – “Someone Like You”
And, Oh my God, not romantic love, but a father’s love, in Kelly Clarkson’s “Piece By Piece.”
I wish there was a better word than ‘cathartic’. Maybe ‘Purifying’ will work.
There is a certain purifying joy in the perfect sad song.
Watch this and cry. You will feel a lot better.
Tuna
I have done a grave disservice to the honorable, reliable, unpretentious Sandwich.
I realized this yesterday at Costco.
One of my favorite activities at Costco is looking at everyone else’s cart and trying to invent the person’s story by what they buy. It’s easier to do this at a warehouse store rather than the supermarket, because when people buy in BULK – their real personality shines through like Tom Cruise’s teeth on the red carpet.
There’s nothing like 12 chickens to give me a whole chapter for a sci-fi novel. Or 48 rolls of toilet paper. Or the old guy with bags and bags of onions.
Anyhow… (Have you ever noticed how many sentences I begin with “anyhow”? That is my Tell…. my obvious sign that I am bringing myself back around to the topic after I’ve meandered away just for my own entertainment.)
So anyhow, yesterday at Costco, besides the chicken-laden shopping cart and the geezer that had need of 77 onions, there was a lady with two huge bags that each held 24 small pack-in-your-lunch-size bags of potato chips. Her obvious story is that she’s got three kids and so she’ll have lunch for the kids for the next 3 weeks. Her less obvious story is that she’s got 24 kids, and so she only has 2 days’ worth of lunchbox chips. Her even lesser obvious story is that she likes to feed ducks and she wants the ducks to each get their own bag.
Anyhow, that’s how I started to feel all kinds of guilt over my neglect of the simple sandwich.
Because all through high school, I had one of those little bags of potato chips in my lunch. My sandwich lunch.
I don’t eat many sandwiches now… carbs, cold cut sodium… all that shit. But the truth is: I love sandwiches.
And I wrote recently of my deep and abiding love for Reuben sandwiches.which was not fair. Because oh my God, simple sandwiches are so wonderful too.
I love peanut butter and jelly, I love salami, I love liverwurst, I love egg salad. I love veal loaf, ham, turkey, bacon, bologna – all kinds of sandwiches.
At our house, lunches for the next day were prepared after dinner. With supper all cleaned up, my mother would take out the sandwich fixings. Bread, mayo, mustard, cheese – and the main ingredient – cold cuts or tuna salad.
And of course little bags of potato chips. And a Yodel. My brother liked RingDings, but I liked Yodels… my Mother used to buy the Yodels one week, and the RingDings the next.I am proud to say, I suffered through the RingDings for my little brother’s sake. I only have a mild case of PTSD as a result.
Anyhow, no one can make a neater sandwich than Mom. I feel sorry for kids today, with their stupid flimsy little baggies with sandwiches that slosh around in there, slowly falling apart. Back in the sixties, we didn’t have little baggies. We had waxed paper.
You could press autumn leaves in waxed paper, using an iron, if you were really careful (and if your mother didn’t catch you doing it.) But the main purpose of waxed paper was to wrap wonderful sandwiches.
My mom was a nurse, and she had years and years of practice making neat hospital corners on the bed sheets, and her sandwich wrapping was as good as it gets. Her sandwiches were so perfect, it was like you got a sweet little Christmas present every day.
Mom would make several perfect sandwiches. She bought little brown bags by the hundred, and she’d put a sandwich, a bag of chips, a Yodel (if I was lucky) and perhaps a piece of fruit in each bag.
And she would label each bag with an initial. “M” for Mom, “D” for Dad, “T” for Tommy and “N” for Nancy. (My two sisters were both “Cs”, which would have been confusing, but they were in college, and so were way above a lunch bag.) Sometimes all the bags held exactly the same thing, but my mother would put an initial on each one anyway.
I loved all my sandwiches. But my favorite – by far – was tunafish. How I loved (and still love) a tunafish sandwich with a side of potato chips.
Now I don’t know whether mayonnaise was a lot more stable fifty years ago, or whether we were just hardier, tougher kids, but no one worried about the tuna salad spoiling. I would put that lunch bag in my purse at 7 A.M., and would eat it as late as 1 P.M. I never got poisoned. It seemed liked the longer you carried your tuna sandwich, the better it tasted – like the bread and the tuna melded as one.
And that waxed paper… why you didn’t even need a plate, because that paper unfolded to the nicest little placemat you can imagine.
Thinking about high school lunch – why it was just absolutely the best part of high school. I’d meet up with Patti and Karen and Chris and Mary and sometimes Charlene or Barbara…depending on the day of the week, and we’d all have our little brown bags. Some days we ALL had a tunafish sandwich. We’d each buy a little carton of milk. We would watch the girls at the popular table. We’d talk about boys and teachers and The Rolling Stones. All over the cafeteria were kids all talking at once… and either eating the school lunch – like Sloppy Joes – or tuna sandwiches. The noise was incredible. (not the eating – the hollering)
Not all of high school was nice. But boy, lunchtime was nice. Those sandwiches were nice.
As I said earlier, I don’t each much bread anymore (which is kind of a shame, because I am quite a good baker of bread), but every once in a while, I MUST have a sandwich. Most often I will have peanut butter and jelly, because it is so easy – and tasty. And sometimes when I visit my Mom, we’ll have sandwiches. Mom always has good cold cuts – and she always always always has good bread. Mom is a connoisseur of bread.
And on very special days for hubby and me, I take out the tuna (two cans of tuna because the dog and both cats come running as soon as they hear that swoosh of the can opener) and the mayo, and the potato chips (which I buy only for company, but pray all the time they are visiting that they don’t eat them all) – and I have the most fabulous lunch, accompanied not only by the chips but by the best memories ever.
Another Amazing Day
I am trying very hard not to freak out (at best) or have a total mental collapse (at worst) over the state of our country. I worry. I want everything to work out. I feel powerless.
I do a little in the political realm, but not much. Because I fear an impending total mental collapse – on either my part (at best) or on the part of someone much much more important (at worst).
I donate to causes I believe in. I support others in their much braver efforts.
But I’m not brave. The author Wally Lamb just posted a short essay on Facebook where he argues with himself about voicing his political opinions. He feels he needs to say something, do something, stand up for what he believes in. But his lesser self knows that it could cost him. People may not buy his books. He could lose his audience. But he cares about the country. He wants to do the right thing. He won’t stay quiet if he needs to speak out.
And I’m not even that brave. I’m not sure if I have more at stake or less. A struggling writer like me needs every single book sale. I can’t afford to offend anyone. On the other hand, what do I really have to lose? I’m not making money writing anyway (although I hope to).
But I do love you guys who read my blog. I don’t want you to go away.
But I have noticed the strangest, most amazing thing.
Because I am not brave, and because I am freaking out, I have tried to calm myself by writing little posts about nice things. Reminding myself of the many little happinesses that I experience every day. I make myself notice them. How can I not feel better when I have a perfect cup of coffee or my own washing machine?
And here is the amazing part. In trying to make myself feel better, I think I may be making you feel better too. Because I have seen a significant increase in subscribers to my blog since November – the likes of which I haven’t seen in quite a while.
Perhaps you too are looking for some small things to feel happy about?
So anyway. Until I am blessed with a stroke of bravery, I am concentrating on the simple joys of everyday life.
Here’s today:
It was 57 degrees (Farenheit, for those of you not in the US) – amazingly warm for Connecticut. How nice is that, after I’ve been walking the dog on 9 degree mornings?
So we took our walk – Theo and I. And it was Muddy. With a capital M. Oh what a mess! And what heaven for the pup. There was not a mud puddle he didn’t stomp in. It was so much fun and so awful at the same time. When we returned, I marched him right into the shower. Our guest bedroom has a handicapped-accessible shower, so it was easy to get him in. Also easy for him to jump out. Did I mention that I cleaned that shower and the floor and the walls just yesterday? But what the hell… mopping up is not that hard. And Theo even submitted to the blow dryer (for a few minutes anyway), so he didn’t get on the sofa soaking wet. And he smells good.
Theo. Sometimes he gets stuff stuck on him. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
Then (after I cleaned up my own wet-doggy smell) I had lunch with my mother. This is always the highlight of my week. My mom – who I write about constantly – is 93, and I love her more than anyone in the world. She’s so smart and so funny. The garbage man got out of his truck the other day to pick up her newspaper for her, and she said to me, “How nice was that! But how bad must I look?”
And Mom gave me mints and Hershey kisses for my purse. She always does. Because she loves me.
Then I went to the makeup store and picked up my eyeliner. I love my liner, but it’s one of those automatic pencil types. Not the sharpen-and-watch-it-get-smaller type. So you never really know when you will run out. And that would be bad. I thought I might be in the danger zone, so I picked up another. And the facial cleanser I like was on sale. Buy one, get one half off. So now I have one for the sink and one for the shower. I don’t have to carry the tube all the way across the bathroom anymore! How great is that?
I came home to a happy nice-smelling doggie, and got myself ready for Zumba.I wore my favorite outfit. Tight gray leggings and a swingy long top with an elephant design on the front. I can really Zumba when I am wearing something pretty.
And guess who was at Zumba? One of my favorite ladies, although I don’t even know her name. She comes once in a while and dances in the back of the room.She’s fabulous. She dances faster than the beat with enormous leaping energy and big, big steps… most of which she makes up herself. The look on her face is always that of Pure Joy. I see her behind me in the mirror – dancing a completely different dance than the other people in the room – and the happiest person there. I can’t stop smiling while I dance the teacher’s version.
And then, on the way home – a minor miracle. I have an old car that I love. It’s a BMW X5 SUV -(I really miss cars with names though, don’t you? Impala. Mustang. Even Beetle. They told you what they were by their names. But X5 – What the heck is that?) Well, it takes driving one to know, but what the X5 is – is a sweetheart with power. Now it’s a 2001 with 185,000 miles, so it has its quirks and we’ve had to sink a sizable wad into it recently. But I love it. And the seat heaters still work – which is like my car loves me and wants me to have a nice warm ass. But anyway, here’s my miracle – minor though it may be. There were a few sporadic raindrops coming down when I left Zumba. The delay action on the windshield wipers is also sporadic. Meaning, mostly it doesn’t work. But the wipers did work tonight. A swipe, a delay, a swipe. Okay cool. Then I hit the highway and the rain suddenly picked up, or rather, picked down. It started to rain really hard. And my wipers stepped up to the plate. Automatically, they just started going, swipe, swipe, swipe. The rain sensor on my old car hasn’t worked in maybe six years. And tonight, it worked.
My wipers were sort of like Helen Keller in “The Miracle Worker” – They remembered water. They remembered what to do! “Wah-Wah” my wipers said.
I may not be brave. I may not be the best Zumba dancer.
But I am the Annie Sullivan of car windshield wipers!
A Life Of Luxury
I had cause recently to reflect on how easy my life is.
And I don’t mean compared to women centuries ago…although surely that is beyond question. Why, I remember watching episodes of “Wagon Train” as the settlers made their way out west – (I don’t think they ever got there, by the way.. I think they went around in big circles for like eight years) – and thinking, “Where do those women go to the bathroom?” Although around year seven, I was also thinking, “How in heck do those women handle their periods?”
Of course, I have it better than the women of olden times.
I mean I am doing better than even:
Me.
My life is so much easier than it used to be.
What caused me to reflect on my easy life was this: I was waiting in the car for my husband, who had run into the supermarket for eggs. And next door to the market is a laundromat. And a young woman came out with a basket heaping with clothes. She balanced it precariously on her hip as she struggled to open her car door.
Oh yeah. I’ve been there.
Going to the laundromat is unpleasant, boring, and sometimes even scary.
And not only did I do it when I was a young adult trying to make it on my own, I did it as a teenager.
When I was 15, my parents moved into a wonderful new house, and that was the moment that the washing machine decided to quit. My parents had to wait until their finances were a little more settled to replace the machine, so we had to use the laundromat. After supper at least once a week, my mother would drive me to the laundromat with baskets of dirty clothes, a bag of quarters, and my homework – and leave me there. She had other things to do – with a large family and a job. This was 1966: there was no entertainment in a laundromat – no TV; cell phones were on “Star Trek” only. If you were lucky at the laundromat, someone might have a static-y radio and taste that was not completely horrible. I did my homework and ran three washers at once, and then the dryers, and tried not to pay attention to the sometimes unique people who wandered in and out. A few hours later my mother would show up, and we’d load up the car and go home. How I hated it.
But you know… it wasn’t impossible. People still do that, as I saw the other day. I could do it again if I had to. But how sweet it is not to have to. I have my own washer and dryer. Down the hall. Appliances that get their own little room!
We’ve all got lots of reasons to be worried in 2017. We see and hear about them every day. I don’t need to remind anyone or frighten myself any more than I already am.
So I am concentrating this year on good things.
This week I am reminding myself of all the little luxuries I have – things that I know I could live without, and that many people do live without – that make life easier.
I remember, for example, being stuck in a traffic jam driving home from work in 1984. In a car with no air conditioning. In July. And this scenario repeated itself dozens of times that summer. For me and for lots of folks. Not moving in a stifling car is a bad way to unwind after work. It wasn’t torture though; I survived. And now we just click on the air and wait comfortably in traffic. And yet we complain.
And speaking of cars: How about being broken down by the side of the road at night? Hoping that someone who is not a serial killer will stop to help you. And having no way to tell anyone that you are stuck. Thank you, cell phones.
And more of the things that I know I could survive without, but that help make my life just a bit easier and sweeter:
Central vac
Online banking
Cable, DVR, Netflix
Spanx
Microwaves
GPS
Disposable contact lenses
Hair dryers
Kindles
Dental floss
Sirius
Yoga
Fitted sheets
Power lawn mowers and snow throwers
Salad in a bag
Google
Heated car seats
And
Makeup.
Especially:
Contouring.
Practical Forgiveness
About two years ago, a friend hurt my feelings.
This was not a close friend – since those friends and family whom we love are usually more sensitive to our sensitivities. Not that a loved one cannot hurt you, but I think it is rarer. Unless of course, they don’t really love you at all. Then you need to reflect on why your closest companions would not be kind to you.
But I digress, as I usually do. Of course, my dearest friends indulge me in this. That’s one reason why I love them so. They may roll their eyes of course, but that is permitted.
No, this was a person who I consider more than an acquaintance but less than a loved one. Many people fall into this category – they’re the folks who know a bit about you and you about them – where they live, what they do for a living, perhaps the name of their spouse or their children, and especially about what you have in common that has made you a friend in the first place. But probably you’ve never actually been in their house or socialized beyond your common interest.
This person who hurt me was one of those. I don’t believe she was being mean or that she deliberately intended to make me feel bad. I think it was one of those careless things. Thoughtless. Not cruel.
This woman made a critical remark about a physical flaw I have that I am sensitive and self-conscious about.
I can easily overlook inconsiderate comments from people who don’t know better. Like someone who recently asked about my children, when I am unfortunately childless. That is not unkind, even though it may be painful to me. It’s not unfeeling; just uninformed.
But this hurtful comment came from someone who knew about my flaw, and described it in a tactless way.
I felt bad. And I felt bad for quite a long time.
I could have ended our small friendship. It wouldn’t have been hard. We see each other occasionally, but there are always plenty of other people around when we meet, and it would be easy to avoid her without shunning her. I could “unfriend” her online. That is a simple keystroke. After all, why would I be friends with someone who hurt my feelings?
But I didn’t. I remained friends. Sometimes you just have to forgive people for their occasional lapses in good manners. Perhaps she was having a bad day. Perhaps she also felt bad after she said it. I know there has been a time or two (or a hundred) when I was sorry that unkind or insensitive words came out of my mouth. She hurt me but didn’t mean to hurt me. That is not so hard to forgive, after all.
And last week, the most amazing thing happened.
This woman, whose words stung enough that I had shed a few tears – this same woman – did me a favor that she didn’t need to do.
She helped me, just out of plain generosity.
If I had ended our friendship, I wouldn’t have received the help I needed. I would have been a little stuck for a little longer.
Keeping her as a friend despite an unkind remark turned out to be a very good thing.
I got the help I needed.
And I got to change my opinion of her from unkind to kind.
She’s nice and it’s nice to know that again.
Forgiveness can be a very practical practice.
The First Time
No, not that first time.
There are lots of things that you do for the first time, that really take some practice to either do it right or even enjoy it – or find out whether you even do enjoy it. (including that.)
So for those things, First Times don’t count.
Ah, bur other things… what a pleasure it is to try something for the first time and discover…Holy Shit, it’s GREAT!!!!
Here are a few of my first time experiences that made me just gasp with pleasure:
1. The first time I wore something that made me feel BEAUTIFUL. I was seven years old. For my birthday, my mother gave me a slip. That’s right. A slip. It was actually called a half-slip, if you are old enough to remember that. Just the skirt part.. no top. A slip for your birthday may not seem like much. But let me set you straight. This was no ordinary slip. It was a CRINOLINE slip.In case you are unfamiliar with crinoline – that’s a slip made out of netting that it very full, so keeps your skirt puffed up. My slip was three layers.. pink, blue, and yellow. I called it my “stiff slip.” I wore it to church on Sunday under every dress I had, and I would have worn it very day if I could have put it under my parochial school navy blue uniform. It was the first time I discovered that what you wear could make you feel good.
2. The first CONCERT I ever attended, and heard a famous recording artist sing live. I was nine, I think, which would have made it about 1960. My family went to Atlantic City for a few days of vacation. This was not today’s Atlantic City with casinos and night life. This was a more-than-slightly seedy past-its-prime poor city – with a nice beach and boardwalk and amusement parks. One day we went to the Steel Pier. I saw the famous diving horse that decades later was memorialized in a sweet Disney movie. And then we went to the concert hall, and headlining that day was – BOBBY RYDELL! We had his records. He was on TV! And he was – he was a real actual PERSON! He sang Volare! He sand to me! I will love Bobby Rydell forever.
3. The first time I rode a FERRIS WHEEL was at the St. Anthony’s carnival when I was about ten. St. Anthony’s was the rival parish to my own St. Anne’s. In my opinion, St. Anne’s was better in every single way. I had great disdain for St.Anthony’s – their school, their basketball team, their ugly uniforms (which were almost identical to ours… but I saw the difference). But one thing St. Anthony’s had that St. Anne’s did not was a Spring carnival. I was big on cotton candy. Not big on carnival rides. I tended to be either terribly frightened or even more terribly nauseated. But that carnival… for some reason I decided to be brave. I bought a ticket (and I had only one dollar for the whole day) for the ferris wheel. And when the wheel got to the top, and we stopped and the basket swung back and forth, and I looked down upon the people and out to the surrounding rooftops – it was complete exhilaration! Brave is good!
4. The first time I had a REUBEN SANDWICH. I was 12, and my mother took me shopping at Lord & Taylor – just the two of us. They had a restaurant right in the store called The Birdcage, I think, but I have no idea why. My mother bought me a jewelry box that day for no reason, which I wrote about a while back, since it was such an amazing, rare treat. But back to the Reuben. Oh my God, corned beef and sauerkraut and cheese and gooey dressing on toast grilled with so much butter it ran down to my wrists when I picked up the sandwich! And with french fries and a cup of coffee. When I was 12, and now when I am 65, I take a bite of a reuben sandwich and it’s heaven in my mouth.
5. The first time I realized that the WRITTEN WORD could move you. I think I was about fifteen when I read a poem that made me cry. I always liked to read. I always liked stories. The public library was my sanctuary. But to cry? To feel real emotion? From a poem of all things? The poem was by Robert Frost, a poet I never especially liked (even now). It is called “Home Burial” and it’s no lyrical, pretty piece. It is mostly dialogue – in the most mundane language – with little discernible meter to me. The dialogue is between husband and wife. They’re grieving for a lost child in very different ways, and they cannot forgive each other for not sharing the same expression of grief. At the point where the husband says to his wife “I do think, though, that you overdo it a little”- that was when I cried.
And it was not long afterwards that the idea occurred to me that I would like to do that – bring real emotion to someone by something I would write. I lost track of that desire for many years – from age 25 to age 50 to be exact.
And then I remembered.
And started again to write.
And I remember it today, 50 years after that little bit of poetry made me cry, because I have just finished the draft for my second novel, and crazy as it seems, and unseemly as it may be for saying it, at the end of the novel, I made myself cry. I am hoping somehow it’s real. That I’m not just sentimental and infatuated with my own words (although I’ll admit that I am both). I hope I have expressed in this new story an emotion that touches someone else.
I have a long way to go before finishing this novel, but for now, I am feeling that FIRST TIME feeling – the first time my own words moved me to weep.
And although it’s sad to cry – the feeling it has given me is extraordinary.
Almost like a reuben sandwich.
Settle Down!
I would give you advice for the New Year, except that I can’t give it as well as this little girl who effectively tells her divorced parents – and the world – to just settle down.
You don’t have to be too high or too low…
Just be at the level of your heart.
Empathy
This week my mother turned 93.
She is still as brilliant and beautiful as the woman I admired when I was just a little girl.
I thought as a tribute to this amazing woman, I would share just one short anecdote from this week.
We had our weekly lunch as usual, and we talked about the great-grandchildren and Christmas preparations.
And I mentioned how irritated I was with some trivial thing that I can’t even remember now – just four days later. That is how insignificant it was.
But Mom said she understands how easy it is to get annoyed with certain people or situations.
And she told me about a friend who had said something recently that offended her.
But then she said:
“But you know, I can right now think of three horrible, sad, and unfair things that happened to that woman. She’s had her own terrible pain that changed her whole life. And she couldn’t do anything about it.
So when I think about being angry with her about some stupid thing she said, it just doesn’t seem right. It seems petty. I can let it go.”
That’s about the best definition of empathy I have ever heard.
How lucky that friend is.
How lucky I am.
Mom celebrating birthday 93 with her three daughters. (That’s me on the right.)
Teeny Tiny Joys
This is a tough time for old hippies like me.
We joined the establishment decades ago, but tried throughout to keep our values intact. We’ve championed the needs of the poor and the powerless, worked to protect human rights and preserve the environment, protested war and corruption – all while also trying to support our families and respect opinions that differed from ours.
This year is difficult. We of the peace-and-love generation are truly worried that the progress we had made in the last sixty years may be dismantled. We are afraid for civil rights, for clean air, for health care, for education.
But despite these significant concerns, we stay optimistic. Because we also believe in the basic goodness of human beings.
We’ll get through the current crisis, just as we survived fearful and distressing times in the past.
As for me personally, what’s helping me stay hopeful and happy is concentrating on the small pleasures that still occur every day. The teeny tiny joys that comfort me.
Here’s how I had a sweet day today.
It snowed last night, so I went out this morning and played with the dog. Theo loves the snow. He runs around like a nut. I hate cold weather, but he brings joy through his sheer pleasure of the moment.
But I also realized out in the slushy snow that my boots had hit the end of the road. I could feel my socks slowly getting wet. So okay, time for new boots. Hell, I like shopping, even if it means I have to contend with holiday crowds.
First, though, I had a dentist appointment. Now that doesn’t exactly bring pleasure to a day. But it was just a cleaning and I have the sweetest hygienist in the world. An immigrant from Thailand, she told me once that she envied me for having a gift for writing. “I could never do that… my English is just not good enough. It is a struggle for me just to read.” Well, I informed her firmly that she not only learned English, she went to school and studied and passed the licensing for dental hygiene in a language not her own. “How many people could do that… do you think I could learn a specialized profession in Thailand?” “Oh, I never thought of it that way… I guess I did okay,” she said.
So that’s why I don’t mind going to the dentist. But still, it’s the dentist, so I am certainly due a little reward. My mother used to bribe me; I see no reason to discontinue that tradition.
So shopping for boots.
I drove half an hour to the dentist, so what’s another half hour to my favorite shoe store? It sounds about right to me.
I arrived at the store, and there was a parking space right in front. Nice.
I found some pretty nice boots. Waterproof, lined – and cool looking too. Even though I have a Medicare card in my wallet, I still want to look cool.
However, in the same shopping center, there are three other stores that carry shoes. And that Medicare card also indicates that I need to accept that I am an old retired person who needs to be frugal. So I put the boots back in the box (kind of in the bottom of the rack as protection) and went to check out the other stores.
Three stores later, I was sure that I wanted those first boots.
But I also needed lunch. So I ran into McDonald’s for a cheeseburger and a coffee. The cheeseburger was consumed back in my car in under sixty seconds, but the coffee – how can coffee be that hot and yet not demonstrating a rolling boil right in the cup? Ah, but no complaints. Not today. I left the coffee in the car and went back to the first store.
And guess what? I was gone an hour and the boots were gone too. And even though I hadn’t been sure I really wanted them – after all, I went to three other stores to see if I could find something better – now that they were gone I wanted them in the worst way.
I went up to the desk and asked if there were any more in the back. No, everything they had was out – (which I hardly ever believe; I worked in retail several years ago. Where does the shit come from when they re-stock? Why – from out back, of course) – but anyway, I am determined not to let stuff bug me unless actual lives are at stake.
So I thanked the clerk and turned to go. And she said, “You know, I could order those for you online and they will be delivered in under 7 days right to your door, and there’s no shipping charge.” Ah. So now I could have them. Did I want them? Well… did I want to shop more? Did I want wet, cold feet?
Yes. Yes I did want cool boots and dry warm feet. The clerk entered the order and she said,“You know what, they’re offering $10 off today online, and it looks like even when I’m ordering from the store, you might get it.” And I did. I didn’t get to take the boots home today, but they were cheaper than if I had bought them on the first go-round.
That means that some other woman got those cool boots while I was eating a cheeseburger. So she was probably really happy. And I got the same boots and I saved ten dollars. So two people got happy today, and I ate a cheeseburger. For me, right now, that’s the definition of a good day.
And I got back to my car, and my coffee was exactly the right temperature.
And I turned the key and the radio came on, and my fantasy sweetheart James Taylor was singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”
In some ways, the world is terrible.
In some ways – teeny tiny ways – the world is sweet.
La La Land (Part 2)
I wrote a blog a week or so ago about La La Land, which was really about the movies and my moviegoing companions.
(Totally off subject – I’ve never been crazy about the word ‘blog’. I tend to think of my little essays as ‘episodes’ – doesn’t that sound nicer? Like my brain is a little TV series, and I am sharing those brain cells one bit at a time.)
Anyway, back to the subject – At the end of my blog/episode, I wrote that I wanted to see the new movie, “La La Land” – because that’s where my husband always says I live.
I think he is right. I do live in La La Land. I like living here.
Because when you live in La La Land, Life is pretty nice.
In La La Land:
– You can trust people. Strangers will say hello. They’ll give you a hand if you need one. You needn’t be afraid of anyone.
– You don’t have to worry about folks cheating you. People selling you goods and services are only trying to make a living – the same as you.
– You don’t have to complain about stuff not being as good as it used to be. You have such an amazing array of stuff to choose from, you can always find something you like. Take television for instance – you’ve got hundreds of choices – something might be to your taste. Or you can read, or surf the net, or listen to music, or talk to each other. And commercials don’t have to annoy you either. Because you know that ads are what’s paying for all that programming, and you can either watch them, or flip the channel, or just zone out. La La Land doesn’t mind if you zone out. La La Land gives you lots of time for zoning.
– In La La Land, compromise doesn’t mean you are giving up on your beliefs. You can hold your beliefs as close to your heart as ever, and still try to look for areas of agreement and concentrate on those.
– You can be happy for other people’s success. After all, they didn’t succeed at your expense. If a writer gets a publishing deal, does that mean you won’t? If a co-worker gets a raise, does that mean that you will never get one? In La La Land, it means that there are raises and publishing deals out there – and perhaps one is for you.
– On the other hand, if someone does get something you will never have, you can be happy for them anyway. If you never had children, and you meet someone with a new baby, well, that’s truly wonderful for them. If you are sad because you have no children, you don’t wish everyone else to be sad as well. In La La Land, it’s nice that someone is spared the pain that has hurt you.
– Even here in La La Land, Life isn’t always fair. Some people have too much. Some people have too little. But in La La Land, there is no need to hate the lucky ones. They probably have their own troubles. And there is no reason to hate the unlucky ones either – those that may need help putting food on the table or getting medical care. Paying taxes so that other people’s lives are a little easier and so that kids can go to school is not so bad.
– In La La Land, even driving isn’t such a hassle. (Do people still use that word- hassle? Well, it doesn’t really matter because in La La Land, people don’t laugh at you for using the wrong word. They are happy to have nice conversations with nice people.) But back to driving. Other drivers are polite. They have their loved ones in the car – same as you. They want to get to their destinations quickly and safely – same as you. If someone is in the wrong lane, it is not an affront to you. You can feel bad for them. You smile and let them cut into your lane. They smile back. And it doesn’t cost you a thing.
– When people make a mistake, you don’t have to take it personally. It’s only an honest mistake. Everyone is doing the best they can, and sometimes they fall short. We all do once in a while.
– And because folks are trying their best, and we all know that we’re not perfect, apologizing and forgiving are easy things to do. (In this way, I guess La La Land is a bit like Canada.)
– And on those occasions where you do feel jealous, or you get angry with strangers – or worse – your loved ones, you don’t have to stay mad. You can just wipe the slate clean. You can do that every day. You can do that every minute if you need to. In La La Land, there is no limit to the number of tries you get. Or the number of times you forgive. Or are forgiven.
– You don’t have to worry about what you look like. And it’s not because looks don’t matter. Looks matter. But luckily, it’s easy in La La Land to see that everyone is beautiful.
This is La La Land.
I live here.
I like living here.
You can live here too.
The entrance to La La Land. My dog will show you the way.
notquiteold 