I did sit down. I took out my journal and watched people come in and out. An older gentleman did what seemed like his routine. He got his drink and sat down on a couch seat, propping his legs up on the ottoman. He took out his newspaper and pulled out the comics. They still print comics, I thought to myself. And this man is reading them? How great is that. I came back to myself and my journal and this uncomfortable sense that I started the day with, and then I said, "Jean, you are okay; everything is okay." Yes, I thought. I registered it in my body. It is true. I am okay. Nothing is wrong. This is a morning to enjoy, just as I am. And yes, I have many responsibilities to take care of, but they are endless. I would like to cross some off with that specific sense of satisfaction that comes with putting a line through words, but there will be more words to add. It won't stop, but I can. I am my own boss, literally and figuratively. I am the wizard behind the curtain, the one with access to the switches. If I could just flip the right one!
I didn't realize at the time, but as I had this conversation in my head, my vision was opening up to what was around me. I was flipping the right switch. I watched another man in his 70's come over to the sofa seats, negotiating with the sunlight, and contemplating where to sit so that it wouldn't be in his eyes. I had the urge to help, though he needed none. He sat in one seat, which I knew wouldn't be right. I watched his expression and movements as if observing a rare animal making a decision. He moved. As he carefully transferred his coffee from one side table to another, I saw his hands were shaking. I saw his vulnerability and my whole self started to soften. I saw the boy he once was, the young, confident and strong man he turned into, and now the older, more fragile man he had to become. I was filled with tenderness and compassion for this stranger's whole life. I sat there and took in the man with his routine, reading the comics, and this man, with his trembling hands wanting to be comfortable, and me, trying to give myself permission to stop, and a woman who asked if she could have the coupons from the man's newspaper before she walked out the door with her young child. I felt all of our vulnerable, human selves making our ways through this life. I wanted to cry at the raw beauty of it all. I could breathe again. What happened in that moment was the critical shift. I moved from feeling separate and somehow "wrong" in my life to letting go and opening up to what is right here. Before me was this gift of people, with whom I did not interact, but whose simple presence allowed me to touch a higher place inside.
We can often see vulnerability easily in children, in older people, and in animals. When we look deeply enough, we can see it in those people who look strong, confident, and powerful. They too, drop things, get food stuck in their teeth, trip on sidewalks, get startled, and shake inside. You can see it in the way they adjust their clothes or fix their hair. As "together" as they may appear, they are in fragile, impermanent bodies, too, and have the need to be loved just as much as the person whose vulnerabilities so easily show. I sat there and thought, wow, what else is there to do, but be gentle with each other, support each other, and share our warmth. I suddenly understood the guru, Amma, the woman who goes around and heals people with hugs. What a job! What better thing is there to do than to stay in that tender place with all people, to say my job is to give warm, heartfelt embraces. My actual job comes very close to it, but even if it didn't, why not have that as my purpose in life? In each moment, I can soften, open to humanity, and welcome people with my eyes and my presence. Words are not even necessary. I can do my part in saying, "you are okay; you are loved," and in doing that see that I, too, am okay and am loved.
I finished writing and as I headed toward my car, I thought, this is what stopping does. It reconnects us to what matters. We can keep crossing things off our lists, but in the end, we don't get to take the finished things or the list with us. In the end, it is this moment that matters. There will always be things to do. So how do we stop? What I learned today, sitting in Starbucks, is that it took a number of factors. It took remembering the wise words of Wayne Muller's book on rest and my good sense to check the book out of the library in the first place. It took being able to physically stop and to stay with the discomfort of feeling like I should keep going. One part of myself overrode that place that anxiously keeps me going. I owe that ability to meditation, which teaches me to stay, despite the Sirens calling out. All of these factors enabled me to look around with a soft lens and, in doing so, I could choose to see myself and others with tenderness. I can see the trembling hearts we all have and take comfort in knowing we are not alone. When I recognize that, I know from a deeper place that the things on my never-ending list can wait.
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