Not turning away

Here's another picture from flood day at the creek. I like it because of the tension in the Taterman's stance – just as if he's about to leap into action! Which he in fact did, moments after this photo was taken. He loves to play games and fetch tennis balls and sticks, but because of his messed up ankle I can't really let him do much of any of that; three or four throws and he can't even walk the next day. So it's good when the creek is high, because that means swimming, which is a lot easier on his joints and has the added bonus of leaving him with shiny clean fresh smelling fur.

Now that the holidays are over I've been starting to sink into a bit of a midwinter blah blah blah. Yesterday morning I woke up with another mini anxiety attack. I think it was because I had to get up two hours earlier than usual for a 7 am meeting, and my body does not like to have its routines disrupted like that. I was fine once I got out of the house, and then on the way home from work eleven hours later fell into a bleak, angry funk over some issues that came up for me during another meeting (having to do with money, and my contributions to the world, and my value as a human being, and my neverending struggle against the desperate desire to protect myself by hiding), which I dispersed via an hour-long crying jag starting the moment I walked in the door. Mr. A was amazing, as usual. He really is one of the kindest people I've ever known.

This morning I had another early meeting, though not so early as the one yesterday. The sun was up by the time I left the house but there was ice on the puddles – finally cold enough to try out the new wind-proof gloves that Mr. A gave me for Christmas. When that meeting was over I had an hour before I had to be at work, and since nobody ever eats anything at these so-called "breakfast meetings," I stopped at another cafe for some grub.

While I was sitting there in the sun in front of the cafe, drinking my tea and reading my book, a cab pulled up and an elderly man stepped out onto the sidewalk. As he shuffled by he gave me a big broad smile, pointed at the table next to mine, and said, "You'll save my spot, won't you?"

"I've gotchya covered," I said.

What a nice, open smile, I thought. Then I spent some time thinking about how simple it is just to smile, and how good it made me feel to be smiled at. I resolved that I, too, should make a point of smiling more. Not just smiling in general, at everyone, but actually giving people a smile. Specifically, just for them.

Then I remembered how, when I first moved back to Utah after living in San Francisco for two years, it used to totally freak me out when people would smile at me in the halls at work. "What was that all about?" I would ask myself angrily. "Why are they looking at me and smiling at me like that? What do they want from me?"

A few minutes later the guy came back out with his coffee. Again, he flashed me a huge grin, showing all his square, yellowed teeth. This time, the smile didn't feel quite real to me. When he started talking I found out I was right. He was smiling on the outside because he was hurting on the inside. He told me about how he loved the sunshine, and the desert. Then, how he'd just moved here from the desert a year ago. Then, how he'd lost his wife in the desert. Then, how he was here because his kids were here, but they didn't really have much time for him. Then he pulled out a copy of an article about him that we ran in the paper a couple of months ago, one of our "local interest" stories. I remembered the article because I was the one who laid it out. It was about his former career as a traveling cowboy musician. He invited me to read it, and I did. Then he pulled out a copy of a program from a musical event he played for at the senior center over the holidays, and showed me his name on the page. I knew a lot of the people involved in the program, so we talked about that for a bit, too.

As we were sitting there a few folks from the group home showed up for their morning snack. He reached out and shook hands with a tiny little woman with Down syndrome and when he let go of her hand, she looked at me, and I held out my hand and she took it and we stood there together for a long moment just holding hands and looking at each other.

Then she let go of my hand and said, "I lost my mom and I lost my dad. I lost both of my parents."

I didn't really know what to say to that so I just kept looking at her and nodded.

"They're in heaven now," she said.

"Well," I said, "heaven is a beautiful place to be."

"Now I'm gonna get me a new mom, and a new dad," she said, and nodded. I nodded back, and she turned and rejoined her group in the cafe.

There are so many lonely people in the world. Including me, sometimes. And everyone else too, sometimes, I suppose. I don't fight against it so much anymore when it comes up in me, and of course having Mr. A in my life means it comes up a lot less often than it ever used to. I'm grateful for that.

Meeting people like these two folks at the cafe this morning makes me feel like this is where I should be putting my energy – not sitting in meetings and schmoozing it up at fancy fundraising events I can't afford tickets to, but actually getting in there at the level of need and doing something myself, hands-on. I feel uncomfortable with this kind of direct action because there's nothing to hide behind – no business card, no donor packet you can just hand someone, no website to refer people to. There's no organization to buffer the contact between me and the other person. I have no official role. It's just me. And what if I'm not good enough?

Bah. Same old insecurities, same old excuses. That's okay, though. As I keep telling Mr. A (trying to help him through something hard he's dealing with right now), they're all just ideas. Just because they come into your head, doesn't mean you have to actually do anything about them. You don't even have to fight them off. Let them come. And then let them go.

So to me this means, just because I feel like curling up in a ball and disappearing, doesn't mean I have to actually do that. Although on the other hand, I also think sometimes it's okay to go ahead and do it after all. For example, I was glad that I allowed myself to spend some time crying last night. I felt so wretched and pitiful while I was doing it, and then afterward I felt totally clear and empty and calm. I really needed that.