When you see an opportunity to lend a hand and something steps between you and the recipient to prevent it, the feeling is one of deep loss. This happened to me recently while at my local supermarket. And it has preyed on my mind for the last day.
The young woman in front of me seemed very pleasant. She had purchased a few items, but the cashier was telling her she had the wrong kind of peanut butter by the time I took my place in line. I was oblivious to the import of all this as the assistant manager, Rosemary, sent the cashier off to find "creamy" instead of "chunky." I was wiling away the minutes rolling my eyes at some tabloid headline. Rosemary then turned to the woman to say, "You can get 2% or skim milk but not whole. You can't get the parsely with these either," and put the produce aside. The young woman smiled and nodded pleasantly. It was then that I noticed what she had--food stamps. I suddenly felt a wave of sorrow for her. In this program apparently one is not entitled to anything that has a whisper of luxury to it. No rich-tasting whole milk. No fun-to-crunch chunky peanut butter. No perky parsely to liven up whatever paltry meal you are preparing.
So great was my own discomfort at seeing one item after another removed from the conveyer belt that I attempted to engage the woman in conversation just to make her feel like part of the human race. I made a comment about the weather and looked at her with a smile. She spoke very little English, and she made motions to convey that information to me, smiling back pleasantly, like one who is striving to keep her last shred of dignity intact. Maybe I was overestimating the situation. Nevertheless, I desperately wanted her to have that parsely, that emblem of something fresh, flavorful, and special. I spoke to Rosemary, "I'll pay for this woman's parsely," as I reached into my wallet. Her response astounded me. Barely looking up from tapping keys into the register she glanced at the bundle and said, "She doesn't want it. But thanks."
She doesn't want it?!?! If she didn't want it why would she have put it in her carriage? I wanted to say just that in response and insist on paying for it, but I stood there stunned by her insensitivity. The young woman finished her transaction, moved on, and I did as well. My anger rose at Rosemary as well as myself for not taking charge of that opportunity to do something lovely for the customer. Why would anyone be so thoughtless? Anger was going to be useless now, but this was an opportunity to tap into my inner sage. What wisdom and compassion could I possibly draw from this painful episode. Could I find a better story with which to interpret this? My sage did not fail me. Rosemary was a victim too. A victim of time. Hers is a busy job: cashing checks, canceling out purchases, managing the cashiers, referreeing over a coupon dispute. She was so focused on getting the task at hand completed that she literally did not see the opportunity to be compassionate. She probably could not deal with me giving her money for an order that was being transacted with food stamps. The whole business may have been so bloated with rules and protocols that is was better to let this opportunity go. And in that moment, she lost herself.
My sage realized that all three of us lost something in that moment, a moment crushed by the man-made demands of time...or at least how we perceive time. You and I are often victims of this circumstance. At my recent retreat someone offered a definition of love. It is not a feeling or an act. It is simply seeing and being seen. And out of seeing compassion grows. We reconnect with our true self. If I can wish you anything in those stressful times of your day it is the ability to see, just for a moment, the suffering of another. If all you can do is smile or say a prayer, do it. And, to paraphrase the rest of the song, Remember yourself with the one who lives there.
This is my neighborhood post blizzard. See that teeny black sliver above the railing? That's the only sign of my car which was completely buried in snow. Three--count 'em THREE--feet in one storm. Nor'easters are a force to be reckoned with.
My male neighbors lent their muscles to the task of clearing my driveway. It was exhausting mentally as well as physically as we had to figure out where to put the darn stuff. We'd work a couple of hours, go back inside for coffee and ibuprofen, then go out and tackle it some more.
After three days of this paralysis, a payloader finally broke through the street. Those people worked round the clock, getting stuck themselves, dodging pedestrians and shrouded vehicles. It was nerve-wracking, mind-numbing, and heroic. But he couldn't clear the entire road, just past my driveway. There he stopped. I'm guessing someone else was in charge of that other portion. You have to stop plowing somewhere, or you end up circumnavigating the Earth.
Up the street, Amy stepped out of her house and observed that she was still snow bound. I was just wrapping up days of back-breaking work when she saw me and, yelling over the sound of a snow blower, expressed her astonishment. "How come they didn't plow me out?!?! I'll never be able to get to work!"
Spent and aching, I mustered as much goodwill as I could. "Think of it as a vacation!"
"How could they be so stupid!?!?! What idiots!!!"
That's my hot-button. When I know someone has given their all to an effort and hear criticism of him, I lose it. I rarely lose it. But I lost it at that moment and made a very impatient and frankly irrational reply before stomping into my house.
Then the inevitable guilt set in. I handled it really badly. I was insensitive to her situation and made myself look like a jerk as well. I had to clean it up. I chose to go over to her house the next day and apologize, then offer to take her grocery shopping with me. "Go over." I write that so glibly. She is maybe 20 yards away from me. But it meant I had to swim through waves of hip-deep snow to get there. Every step was a booby trap. In an act of poetic justice, I fell on my face a couple of times. I arrived soaked with cold water and knocked on her door.
She greeted me warmly, and then I stated my reason for coming, offering a sincere apology for my remark.
"What remark?"
"You didn't hear what I said?"
"No, I thought you were just complaining about shoveling. What did you say?"
"Amy, if you didn't hear me, I'm not going to repeat it!" And we both laughed.
Then she turned quite somber. "No, I don't need to go grocery shopping, but thanks for the offer. It was good of you to come over. It's been a hard week for me. It's the anniversary of my mother's death, and my sister attempted suicide. It's too much...." She broke down after that. I simply stood there, giving her my full attention, sending as much love to her as I could. Since I was not invited in, I figured she did not wish to dwell in this place. Then pulling herself together she said, "I just needed someone to tell that to."
I gave her my deepest condolences, she thanked me, and I returned home to send up a prayer for her. Never in a million years would I have guessed that doing something stupid could provide a means to connect with someone in need. If I hadn't blown so rudely, I would never have been moved to visit with her. Amy just isn't one of those neighbors I hang out with.
So I wonder if there are times when being less than perfect opens up opportunities for grace. Maybe the Universe uses our mistakes for a higher good if we are brave enough to own up to them. Maybe storms leave some good in their wake after all.
Pax tecum
