I was at the train station counter in Normandy, inquiring about purchasing a ticket when I heard a bit of excitement coming from just a few feet away. I looked to my right and saw one of the agents gesticulating animatedly and holding very little back as far as the way she was feeling about ... something. "That's it. From now on if they want information, they can just go online or ask someone else. I am not going to put up with this. I don't have to put up with this." As she pushed her chair away from her desk, I could see many of her co-workers (including the one who was helping me) shake their head in sympathy. I had seen nor heard nothing. I had noticed a couple talking with her when I walked in, but really nothing special. The couple was now gone, and the place was pretty quiet. That's when she added, in case someone (like me) had not noticed: "If they can't even take the time to say goodbye, then I don't have to take the time to help them." And I am censoring a bit. What had happened? Well, a couple - definitely not French - had come to her counter, asked for some information, received that information, and walked away. Maybe they smiled, maybe they muttered a quiet thank you, I am not sure. But apparently they had not said goodbye. And for a country who is really big on hellos and goodbyes (you would not think of walking into a bakery without saying "Bonjour!" to everyone there), they had committed a big boo-boo. I had not been in my country more than three hours and already I was feeling tender about our sensitivities. We may smoke in between courses, we may have questionable public bathrooms, but for god's sake don't serve us day old pastries and don't ever, ever forget to say goodbye. We all have our agreements, the things that work, and the things that don't work. People have them, countries have them. The things that are okay, the things that itch like wool, the things that make our stomachs, or our noses, turn. I think that's pretty sweet. Receive my blog posts straight into your inbox. When we first walked into this little village, not quite a week ago, and once the initial turbulence behind us, we were surprised by not just how small it was, but how devoid of ... pretty much anything. We had a bite to eat at what seemed to be the main / only bar in town, noticed the indefinitely closed pastry shop, and made friends with the fact that for anything else, we would find our way to either Pisa or Lucca, a few kilometers away. Not a bad plan anyway. In the last few days, we have walked into the breathtakingly beautiful hills, stood in awe of the 851 year old church, had a couple of snacks at the little bar, shopped at the three-stalls weekly market, and settled into enjoying the sparsity and simplicity of our surroundings. But day by day, something new would catch our eyes and ears. First, the elementary school, with all its boisterous kiddos. Then, the post office and what may be a bank machine attached to it. Men, talking loudly with each other in the street at lunch time - and doing a whole lot of affectionate touching. Yesterday, we noticed what we thought could be a small grocery store. This morning, on the lookout for some olive oil, we made our way to that potential little store and discovered that indeed it was a grocery store! Quite well stocked, too. A bag full of very fresh vegetables and some toilet paper later, we took a new street on the way home and found ... another grocery store. Super friendly shopkeepers, the biggest pears I have ever seen, some local wine, freshly brined olives, and off we went. Continuing up that new-to-us street, we found ourselves right in front of a church we had never seen (I think that's the third of fourth one in the village) and briefly stepped into its sacredness. There is a deepening. Something that had we only passed by for a night or two, we may never have been able to experience. Something which may be only available to us because we would have been fine without it, and were able to relax into what was. Something beautiful and which feels like a privilege. It reminds me of relationships with people, and of how it takes time to get the full flavor of them. How letting go of how we think they should be may allow us a deeper vista into what actually is, too. Receive my blog posts straight into your inbox. When I opened my computer yesterday morning, it was past midnight in the US. I logged onto Facebook and right there on the small side bar, I saw the words "shooting in Las Vegas." My finger made its way to the link, and then my eyes made their way down the article. It was one of the early reports, and not much was known other than the basic facts - and some numbers. Shooting in Las Vegas. Where my daughter lives. She did not pick up the phone when I called the first time, nor the next many times. I hung on to a text she had sent me several hours before telling me that she was going to the lake. I hung on to a text from her brother telling me that she would never go see this particular concert. More than anything, I hung on to a feeling in my body that said that if she was hurt, I would know it. I got dressed, I dialed her number, I went hiking in the hills, I dialed her number. I had my feet in Tuscany and my heart floating somewhere else. I hung on to a feeling in my body that said that if she was hurt, I would know it. At 4 pm, I got a text from her. She was camping at the lake. She did not have her phone with her. She had just awakened. I asked if I could please see her face for a minute. She immediately got on FaceTime, and I saw her face. Tanned, in nature, and very much alive. That's when my heart simultaneously exploded in two very distinct directions. It exploded from having held a possibility at bay for seven long hours, telling myself that "if she was hurt, I would know it." At the very same time, my heart exploded because I was aware that this moment when I could see my girl, healthy and alive was not going to be granted to all parents, siblings, friends, today. The rest of the evening, the night and today have felt like a haze. A fog made of thick layers of gratitude and bereavement. And of wondering ... "what the heck is going on?" Followed by so much awe and love for the people who showed up at the very best we can ever hope to show up for each other. |
SCARED OF THE SACRED
HAPPINESS SCHOOL:
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