Wednesday Wish (104); Pass It On

photo by abf via
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Heart_of_snow.JPG

When he saw my car, he didn’t know I was having an eventful morning, that I had already iced two cakes and still, my daughter wouldn’t eat her breakfast because, among other things, there was a white mink in the mousetrap. He didn’t know I was hosting three authors for dessert and that after dropping my daughter off at school I was headed to pick up one of those authors at the airport. And he certainly didn’t know that when we finally got into the car and out the driveway that my neighbor was having a crisis of her own, the whole series of events making us terribly late.

Even though I had never met my neighbor, I stopped to ask if she needed help dragging her huge bag of garbage to the end of the road.

“No, no,” she said, almost breathless. “But there is something else you can help me with. Could you call a locksmith? I’m locked out.”

            “A locksmith?” I had no idea where a locksmith might be in my new little New England town and the thought of leaving her outside in her bathrobe, boots and parka in sub zero snowy weather left me almost speechless. “Sure. I’ll find you a locksmith. But are you sure I can’t do anything else for you? What if you wait in my house to stay warm?”

            “No, no. I’m fine,” her face looking half frozen. “Just a locksmith.”

            “You sure? Just a locksmith?”

            “I’m sure. Just a locksmith,” her teeth now chattering as her flannel nightgown fluttered in the breeze.

So I drove off blinking hard, wondering if I was really living my day, not just making it all up.

He didn’t know any of this as I sped by. And how could he—an innocent police officer enjoying his uneventful morning until mine collided to contradict his.

As soon as I saw his lights, I pulled off to the side of the road, grateful that I had already made the appropriate calls for my neighbor.

            “Hello, Officer. I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t believe my morning ...”

            “I’m sure I wouldn’t.” He was formal and well spoken, a true police officer with confidence and command. And he didn’t seem to budge under my gentle emotional distress. “Do you know you were going 40 in a 25?”

            I gulped. I didn’t. But I wasn’t about to argue. Instead, I apologized and begged for a warning, telling him at a pace equivalent to speed dial how new I was to the community and hoping the story of my white mink, or my neighbor freezing outside in distress, or the icing of my two cakes or even my trip to the airport after dropping my daughter off at school … some of it, any of it, might help. And I swear that when I did, his eyebrows rose.

I gave him my insurance and registration cards, and waited. And waited. And waited. And soon, just as I was sure my daughter would miss her entire morning at school and I would miss picking Charles up on time, he got out of his car and headed for mine.

            “Please watch your speed in town, Ms. Betz. And tell your daughter’s teacher I made you late.”

            “Oh thank you, Officer, thank you so much. As for telling the teacher, though, no way! I can’t tell her that,” I said with an overflowing smile. “I have to preserve my upstanding reputation and a run-in with the law would never do.”

            He handed me my paperwork.

            “You know … Paul,” I found his name tag, “I want you to know that I write about the little things that make life magic and your gift of kindness today won’t end with me. I’ll be passing it on. Promise.”

            “Wait, wait,” he said, giving me a double take, “you write about the little things that make life magic?”

            “Uh huh,” my eyes now sparkling.

            “You really do?” he asked again.

            I nodded. Like a golden retriever. “I do!”

            “Well, isn’t that amazing,” he said shaking his head with a smile.

“It is?” I asked.

“It is! Because guess what? I do, too! Now if that isn’t a beautiful gift from the universe, I don’t know what is!”

            And right then and there, we both started to laugh. I shed my stress, he shed his title and for a few beautiful moments, Officer Paul and I were just souls on a journey sopping up our serendipitous connection.

            “I’m probably going to have to write about this.” I yelled out to him as he made his way back to his car.

            “I was about to say the same thing to you, too, Brynne,” he yelled back with a big delightful grin.

And then we laughed some more. In our own cars. Mine with a new peace, crawling the speed limit back to my neighbor, to insist on warming her up. His driving off with a lighter feel … yep, that magical feel the universe shares every time you heed its call. And I think it’s safe to assume that we both drove away happy, happy that we had made a new friend.

*          *          *

Pass it on. Pass on the kindness in your heart even when it isn’t appropriate or the rules say otherwise. Do it because it is right in your heart, right in your soul, right in that place that believes in magic and the goodness of people. 

Wednesday Wish (103); Protect Your Magic

photo by zev at fiddleoak.com

“Did you remember the cupcakes?” said my best friend Jenny, twirling her braids and chewing her day old gum.

          “Yep,” I said, proud of myself for not accidentally-on-purpose forgetting and then gobbling them up like a belly-happy beast.

          “And what’d ye tell your mom?”

          “That we were looking for four leaf clovers. Same as I always do. What’d ye tell yours?” I kinda knew, but it was what we always asked each other. As if to be sure neither one of us had been forced to reveal even a smidgen of our secret.

          “Nothing much. Going outside to play. She isn’t like your mom. She’d probably make me stay inside if I told her we were hunting for—“

          “Shhh—someone might hear you!” One could never be too safe.

          “Thanks, that was close. Good thing your brother wasn’t around. He’d probably have me in a head lock by now. ‘Say it! Say it, Jenny, or I’ll rip it off….’” Jenny rubbed her neck, her eyebrows peaked over her bright brown eyes. “He’s a bully, that brother of yours.”

          “I know. Come on, though. Twilight is comin’ fast and you know we only have a little bit of time before dinner.”

          “Our dinner or theirs?”

          I giggled, “Ours, silly. Fairies don’t eat like us. They just nibble on forest treats all day long. And anyway, I’m sure they’ve been watching us for the past few minutes. Bet you my favorite purple pen that their stomachs are grumbling right about now. Once a fairy gets a whiff of these cupcakes, they won’t be able to focus on anything else.”

          “Ya,” said Jenny with a grin, “I bet you’re right. I know I can’t.”

          I giggled right back, “I love you, Jenny. And I love trying to find our real kin together. Not another person in the world I’d wanna do it with.” I reached for her hand and squeezed it good 'en hard.

          “You mean you wouldn’t wanna meet your first fairy holdin’ hands with Jon Foster instead?”

          I made a barfing noise and within seconds we were a  mess on the forest floor, me throwing leaves and Jenny huckin’ acorns, the two of us bursting at the seams.

*          *          *

My Wish for you this week? To protect your magic. You see, sometimes we come across a magic in our lives, either in our imagination or in our waking world, that changes everything—that lightens our heavy. For some of us it’s an afternoon of fairy hunting with a wide-eyed imaginative little friend but it can also be as simple as an idea for a book, or a painting, or a new business. For others it might be a belly-flutter when someone walks by, or a lovely heart-pounding when a certain reminder happens upon our path. No matter what it is though, we must always—always—remember one important thing. We must protect those magics in our lives. We must keep them growing and even thriving. Like a fairy in the wood or a whisper in the breeze, magic can be elusive and if it is not treated with the utmost care, it can slip through our fingers, leaving us once again with a heavy load upon our backs. So this week, protect your magic. Give the magic in your life room to flourish. And share with others only when you no longer need to defend what you know to be true.

Wednesday Wish (102); Replenish

photo by katerina plotnikova

I sat cross-legged on the grass. It was itchy in the way tropical grass always is. Was it uncomfortable with itself, too? Grass never seemed as happy in the heat as palm trees or orchids or gardenias did. Maybe their itch was their way of expressing themselves. But before I could wonder anymore, a few people sat down beside me …

One had a bone through his nose. He said it was for picking food out of his teeth or getting dirt from under his fingernails. I thought him resourceful. And his eyes, they talked kindly to me. Another sat down with tattoos all over her face. They highlighted the beauty that she was. A darker brown on her brown was beautiful. She nursed a baby on one breast and a pig on the other. She was smiling. I was, too. So was the man with the bone in his nose. Still more joined us. I can’t remember all of them, but each was unique, each was beautiful, each touched me with their genuine selves worn so effortlessly.

They asked me questions. Why my skin was so light. Why my hair was so straight and long. Could I help them grow their hair long, too? Could they have some of it to remember me by? And then ... they asked me what I would do when I went back to my home country, when I went back to where I was from. I swallowed hard and decided to tell them the truth.

“When I go home,” I said with tender eyes, “I will have to get a job. I will have to work. And probably not on the land, but in a building.”

“Work? Inside? But why would you want to do that?” they said to me.

“To make money. Because, you see, if I don’t have money, I won’t have a place to live or food to eat. If I don’t have money, I will go hungry.”

Their faces looked at me, blankly. And then the man with the bone in his nose said, “Don’t you have land to use? Don’t you have family? Can’t you plant sweet potatoes?”

“I can plant sweet potatoes and I will, but still, I will have to work to pay for my house, just as the rest of my family does. It is what we all do in the United States. We must. To survive. We have to work for not just what we want, but what we need. And sometimes we even have to work at jobs that we don’t like just to have enough money to live.”

And do you know how that beautiful group of natives reacted that day in the heart of Papua New Guinea?

They wailed.

They wailed with tears streaming down their faces.

For me.

For you.

For all who struggle in a system that doesn’t naturally feed their souls.

*          *          *

My Wish? That you replenish your soul. That you see the system you were born into and work through it. Not against it, but through it. There are always ways to replenish your soul. There are always ways to feed your spirit. Listen to your soul’s desires. Honor those desires, those wishes, those secret, but not forgotten, dreams. Let them guide you to a life of your own choosing, a life that you love, a life that makes you feel as if you have wings. Then fly, my dear …. FLY!

Wednesday Wish (101); Ask

angel machines by nick bantock via flickr

He had always been a favorite author of mine so when I opened the finely wrapped gift on Christmas morning, my hand rushed up to cover my mouth. How did I not know he had written a new book? How did the gift giver beat me to it? I could hardly wait to be alone, to dive into this new world, to watch his words come alive, to soar with his imagination. You see, it was a particularly difficult Christmas for me. I was newly divorced, back home with my parents, and honestly, I was sad. Sad that my life wasn’t at all like I hoped it would be. But … as I would soon find out, my imagination was exactly what my spirit needed. And a new read from a favorite author? Well, that part at least, was even better than I hoped.

I tucked my legs up under myself for so long, they ached. I laughed out loud. I filled my eyes with tears. And my body, well, I’m pretty sure it lost some of its heavy emotion. And all because of one man’s gift of imagination. Thank you, dear author, I said to his picture on the back cover when I was finished reading, thank you for bringing a smile to my sad heart. And universe, if you are listening, I’d like to thank him one day in person, to tell him what a gift he has been to me this Christmas.

And just like that, I got on with the rest of Christmas.

Until the phone rang.

It was a friend of mine. She wanted to meet me for lunch the next day. At a bookstore in an out-of-the-way-town. I agreed. And hung up with yet another smile.

The next day, in a town about forty minutes away, I was browsing through books, waiting for our name to be called for an open table. I was wandering, probably daydreaming, when I looked up and saw who I thought was the author I had just read the day before, the author who had transformed my Christmas. I blink-stared. And blinked some more. He doesn’t live here. It’s the day after Christmas. He’d never be here … would he? I went to the shelf where his books lived to double check what I was seeing, the face on the back cover with this face I was seeing in person. I crept around the corner, peering as discretely as I could. It was him. It was definitely him. My heart picked up its pace. I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Excuse me, but are you Nick Bantock?”

He turned to face me with a sly smile, “I am.”

I’m sure I swallowed a big gulp of air, “I thought so. Well, there’s something you need to know.” And I proceeded to tell him how he saved my Christmas, how his words brought wings to an otherwise heavy heart. I thanked him again and again and again.

And do you know what he told me?

That earlier that day he felt a strange urge to pull off the freeway, that amidst protests from everyone else in the car, he just knew he had to stop in at the out-of-the-way bookstore in the out-of-the-way town but he didn’t know why.

And then he said, that lately, the past few months anyway, he had been doubting his worth as an author, that he wondered if anyone ever read him anymore and if he should just stop writing all together. He looked at me, talked to me, his eyes begging for answers he just couldn’t find himself.

“No, no, no!” I said. “Please keep writing. I know I am not the only one who needs your imagination. If you buoyed me, a heavy-hearted new divorcee on Christmas, I can’t possibly be the only one.” I searched his eyes. Was I reaching him? So then I said,  “You know something Mr. Nick Bantock in the out-of-the-way-bookstore on the day after Christmas? I’m a reminder from the universe to keep writing because what you do is magic. And we need magic in this world now maybe more than ever.”

And I swear to you, right then, his eyes caught fire.

As did mine. And maybe not just my eyes. No, I am sure my heart did, too.

*          *          *

Ask. Ask for your heart’s desires, for the feelings, the connections, the answers you need. But please don’t forget to expect those desires to be met. For you see, Nick Bantock isn’t the only magic one here. I happen to know that you are, too. You just need to believe it, for yourself, and especially this week, today …  right now. 

A Love Song For Us All

A Thanksgiving Wish

photo by nimbustheodora via flickr

She was young but her spirit had already walked many, many miles. Her voice was rough, her eyes were tired, her body dragged. I saw her in the hallway after she brought her little girl to school and before she headed back to the projects where she and her three children lived. It was November in Raleigh, North Carolina, 1997.

“G’morning, Tina,” I said to her with a gentle smile.

She looked up at me with a softness I hadn’t seen from her before, as if she needed kindness so badly, as if without it, she didn’t know how she would make it through her day.

            I reached out to touch her arm, to give it a little squeeze. “I don’t have anyone in my office right now,” I said. “If you have time, I’d love to talk to you.”

            She nodded and swallowed hard, trying her best to hold back tears.

            I moved my hand to hers and held it tightly as we walked back to my office. “It’s gonna be alright," I whispered. "It’s all gonna be alright.”

She told me her story that day, a story of hope and disappointment, abuse and tragedy, love and loss.

            “I apply for jobs when the kids are in school but preschool is only a few hours and I need a job to pay for childcare, but I need childcare to have a job. I am so tired, Miss Brynne, so tired. And it feels like no one cares a thing. I go to the store and no one looks me in the eye, no one pays me any mind. It’s like I’m invisible, something no one wants to see. I might not’a gone to college, but I ain’t bad. I love my children just like the other lady does, I just didn’t never get any help. I been doing it all on my own since I was fourteen.”

           

We talked for a long while that day and lit a few candles in that heart of hers to lighten up the darkest places. Tina cried and she cried and she cried. And I listened and held her, hard, the best way I knew how.

A few weeks later, it was nearing Thanksgiving. I knew Tina and her family wouldn’t have much but I didn’t say a thing. Until one day, the last day of school before the holiday break, I had to.

“Tina?” I said to her, after she watched her little girl run into the classroom to play with friends. “I have something for you,” and I motioned for her to come with me.

As we walked to my car, I told Tina a story about an old lady who had a lot of money. I told her how the old lady was angry and hurt because no one cared, and no one needed her, not even her money. But after a while, that old lady realized that for people to care about her maybe she needed to start caring herself, first. Maybe if she gave, maybe if she smiled, maybe if she looked someone straight in the eye with kindness from her heart, maybe then, what she needed herself would be returned.

            Tina listened and smiled to herself, thinking as we walked.

“So this old lady,” I said, “she knew I worked in the projects and decided that she’d try giving right away. So she gave me some money and told me what to buy.” I opened the trunk of my car.

Tina looked in at a turkey and all the fixings for a Thanksgiving feast. She covered her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. “For me?” she said. “Really? For me and my babies? Well, I never—”

            My own eyes started welling up, too. “She asked me to give all this to someone who was in danger of thinking no one cared. And for me to tell you she did. She didn’t want any thanks, she just wanted you to not stop believing that the world is a good and kind place. For it is, Tina. It is.”

           

We hugged that day in the cold, dirty parking lot of Raleigh’s toughest neighborhood. Around us there was anger and ugly, but the two of us, together we were our own little island. And that was all that mattered. That, and that Tina never felt indebted to me for buying her Thanksgiving dinner that year.

*          *          *

Happy Thanksgiving, dear Reader, your heart is mine, too.

Wednesday Wish (100); Weave With Me?

photo by david&bonnie via flickr

An eerie silence wrapped itself around the camp like a heavy fog. I scanned across the cement and the patches of gravel but there was no one. Not even a correction officer. Maybe it was the cold, the cold that seeped in unannounced turning everything a darker grey. Or maybe there was a scuffle and the officers were called to assist. When Count was called, all inmates not in class or an appointment were required to be on their beds. But the officers, they were exempt. Yet still, no one roamed outside. I was all alone.

Gravel crunched under my feet as I walked from Medical back to Programs. And then, without warning, an officer came on the loud speaker, his voice echoing throughout camp.

“Count’s clear. Count … is clear.”

And just like that, the double doors to the biggest wing of the prison, flew open, a flood of men, heading straight for me.

I walked calmly, hoping that I wouldn’t have to speed up my pace to make it to the door of Programs before they did. And yet still, I had to control my urge to watch them gaining on me. I knew they preyed on fear and I refused to give it to them. I kept calm. I focused on where I was headed. But when I reached the door and turned the knob, it didn’t move. I turned it again, shook it to be sure. Nope, it was locked. Hiding my urgency as best I could, I knocked. No answer. Where were the officers? Where was the rest of the staff? I knocked again, a few times, harder, louder. And still, no one answered. I was on my own.

The mass of men—murderers, rapists, criminals of every kind—reached my side. Within seconds they had created a circle around me, no one uttering a word. I looked around, each one wearing the same clothes, the same blank eyes, the same thin lined mouths. I laughed an uncomfortable ‘don’t do this, oh my god’ kind-of laugh. Still, no one said a word, they just closed in, inching forward, making the circle tighter and tighter around me. I could smell the unfiltered cigarette smoke on their breath, the metallic scent of their sweat. They must’ve been at least five to ten men deep. And I was one woman, on my own, with a few inches of buffer around me. I had no idea what to expect or if I would even survive.

And then, like a dream, one inmate pushed his way through the crowd.

“Don’t worry Miss Betz. I got you.” He turned to catch the eyes of all the men around me, his body completely shielding mine, “I got you,” he said again to the crowd, slowly, threateningly. “Ain’t no one gonna touch Miss Betz.”

And just after he did, someone opened the door.

*          *          *

When things happen that we don’t have the capacity to fully understand, when our hearts are moved by unnamed emotions, when we are left speechless by something we have never before met, time stands still. And if we are lucky, once it begins again, we realize that in that moment, we were a thread, a thread that is a part of the weave, a weave that brings into being the vast and magnificent carpet whose presence resembles the Divine. And when we do, we cannot help but surrender. Surrender to the knowing that once a thread in the Divine carpet of life, always a thread in the Divine carpet of life.

My Wish for you? That this week, you think of yourself as a thread, a thread connecting you to every other human being on the planet. Without you, the weave is missing a color, it cannot create its pattern correctly, it’s all wrong. Without him, I would have been hurt, devoured, and who knows what else. Without that single inmate honoring his part in the whole, that profound moment of beauty would have been lost forever. Without you, honoring your part in the whole, moments of beauty are lost every single day. But with you, you can make the divine carpet of life that we are all living, richer, more vibrant, more beautiful than your head or your heart could ever possibly imagine. 

Weave with me? Weave with me, the best is yet to be.