- The bundle of brush and bag of yard waste Ben set out on the curb.
- The leaf that unfurled this morning on the dieffenbachia, shiny as a new dime.
- A new dime. How did all those groady coins end up in my change purse?
- The genius of dandelions. I plucked one that had a tap root at least two feet long.
- Any journalist who still works in the middle east.
- The spotless kitchen counter, when I got up this morning.
- The absence of gnats. If our current infestation ends, I will never forget. Really. I swear.
- Wednesday night's conversation with Scott, Cara, Kate, Teresa, and Ben.
- The driver who waved me across the street while I was walking.
- A freshly scrubbed toilet. Any time. Anywhere.
I'm on the first-ever Dawn Downey Book Tour. I've been away from home, marveling at the generosity of my friends, who are coming up with brilliant promotional ideas and opening their homes to me. Watching them in the comfort and familiarity of their private spaces, I can't help longing for my own bed. So here's a post from last fall, to remind me of home.
At Home in Paradise: I woke up at 2:00 a.m. with the blanket wrapped around my ankles in a serpentine tangle. My husband snored beside me, his arm heavy on my chest. I wriggled free to retrieve the covers and tuck them under my chin. The sweet scent of an apple core on the nightstand mingled with body odor from the long-past-laundry-day sheets. Outside the window, treetops swayed in the moonlight, and fallen leaves rustled as they skipped across our patio. An airplane roared above the night. At home in Paradise, I drifted back to sleep. I lingered with friends outside the metaphysical bookstore, after our meditation class. We puzzled about how to sustain the sense of connection that had permeated our past hour in the silence. An unshaven man wearing stained trousers, wrinkled shirt, and a baseball cap strolled toward us, singing. His good cheer was contagious, the perfect complement to my aspirations of inclusion.
“Hi,” I said. He stopped. “How are you young women this fine evening? Would you have any spare change?” We reached into our wallets, each placing coins into his hand. “Much appreciated. Let me sing you a song.” The suggestion embarrassed me. Ick, you don’t have to do tricks for the money. He launched into a solo that resembled an out-of-tune violin. It turned into an incomprehensible monologue. He wagged his finger in our faces. "G*&@#d people, think they own the f*&^g world …" I nodded in faux sympathy. Truth be told, I had expected him to perform a trick for the money. I’d expected him to disappear. He stormed off in full rant, then stopped, turned around, and tipped his hat. “I’m going to get a beer, thanks to you ladies.” Now I may have suspected he’d spend the money on liquor, but he wasn’t supposed to say it. I wanted to snatch back my seventy-five cents. It had strings attached. I’d paid that panhandler to leave me alone, so I could remain safe in my spiritual bubble. Kindness is a privilege for the giver, not a gift to the recipient. It doesn’t expect the beneficiary to be polite, stop drinking, or move along. It does not anticipate future benefits or recall that it gave at the office. Because I still do those things, I have much to learn. Thank goodness the bodhisattvas of the street will continue to approach me with their alms bowls. |
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