Several years ago, a writer who I respect told me that it is hard to write about happiness, and that Anne Lamott is an author who writes well about happiness. I had never heard of Anne Lamott but noted her name. Some time later, I went to the bookstore looking for one of her titles. I checked the store's computer and found that they had five copies in-store. The computer indicated that they were in the Bargain pile , under Religion. I looked and looked and checked under the table but could find no copies. I left without buying a book.
This spring, I returned to the same bookstore and again checked the computer. Not surprisingly, the computer indicated there were five hard copies in the Bargain pile, but it also indicated some paperbacks were available. I was on a bit of book buying binge and had already selected several to take home so I headed to the library next. I checked out Anne Lamott's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith as well as several books by Pema Chodron.
I have now finished reading my pile of books. The recipes from Moosewood Cooks at Home were tasty but my real nourishment has come from Anne Lamott. One story in particular resonated with me. The story was about skiing, and skiing with a friend with terminal cancer. The friend pointed out to Anne that "you're so afraid of falling that it's keeping you from skiing as well as you could. It's keeping you from having fun."
True in skiing. True in life. Now to apply the lesson fearlessly in both skiing and life.
Namaste.
Ginny
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Light and dark trucks
I feel the menace behind. I look into my car's rear view mirror and there it is. A large Dodge Ram pickup truck, its grill bared like shark's teeth as it approaches me. This particular truck is black with silver trim but in the past, it has been white or, occasionally, blood red. The colour doesn't matter, or even the brand. It is the size that matters - over-sized, thirsty, and looking for dominance.
The truck looms behind me, moving ever closer until I feel its cold breath on my tailgate. I hold my steering wheel and speed steady. With a sharp jerk, the truck finally accelerates into the passing lane and I exhale with relief.
I never see the driver. It is as if the driver is an armoured knight atop a warrior steed. The anonymity helps with intimidation. There is a fraternity of these trucks on the highway and I feel their raw unformed anger regularly. I picture these trucks and their drivers as forces of evil, much like the dark forces in Tolkien or Star Wars.
This realization makes me sad for, historically, the signs of a dark age are family disputes, war, famine, and travellers wandering highways (or, in our times, mall alleyways). Yet,despite 911, despite military involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq, despite poverty, gang violence and familial abuse, we in North America feel that the battle between light and dark is being fought elsewhere. Thinkers, writers and even scientists are warning that earth is at the cusp of a big change but most of us do not realize that we are choosing sides through our daily actions.
The side of light is well represented, but like light itself, is sometimes hard to see. Light is most present in simple everyday acts. Just yesterday, I drove past the corner where a young man dances regularly. This is a very busy corner, intersecting an east-west highway with a north-south artery. Traffic invariably backs up and drivers fume as they sit still in their cars.
In about 2000 or 2001, I first noticed a boy about 14 or 15 years, bundled up against the cold in winter, with headphones on, grooving to the music. When light signals changed, that would be his stimulus to move to the next corner, still bopping as he crossed the street. I worried why he wasn't in school, but I worried more if he wasn't there. Seasons and years went by and still, "The Dancing Boy" was out in all weather dressed appropriately and dancing. Drivers stopped fuming and watched and traffic seemed to move all the better itself when "The Dancing Boy" traversed the corners.
Yesterday when I saw "The Dancing Boy", he was astride his bicycle adjusting his music player. A dozen multi-coloured balloons were tied to the handlebars and danced in the wind. I wondered what the occasion was but realized there was no occasion needed. It was May 14 and snowing. What other reason is needed for balloons to brighten a dark day?
Today, I saw a force of light leaving a dark truck. I had gone to the garden centre needing green after yesterday's snow. The truck was typical. Large and looming, it impeded me as I tried to park. As I got out of my car, I was surprised that two little girls were lifted out of the truck by their father. A few minutes later, I was walking down the aisle of the garden centre and heard a shopping cart directly behind me. I stepped out of the way. The metal cart was being pushed by the truck owner, with one daughter sitting in the cart and the other one walking beside. As the older daughter passed, she looked up at me and said "thank you". I replied "you're welcome".
The little girl's words and actions are illuminating. And by her actions, she is setting an example to me and to her father, who deep inside is likely still a vulnerable and scared little boy. Without our armour, without our big trucks and houses, without our brand names, we can see one another as we truly are.
The truck looms behind me, moving ever closer until I feel its cold breath on my tailgate. I hold my steering wheel and speed steady. With a sharp jerk, the truck finally accelerates into the passing lane and I exhale with relief.
I never see the driver. It is as if the driver is an armoured knight atop a warrior steed. The anonymity helps with intimidation. There is a fraternity of these trucks on the highway and I feel their raw unformed anger regularly. I picture these trucks and their drivers as forces of evil, much like the dark forces in Tolkien or Star Wars.
This realization makes me sad for, historically, the signs of a dark age are family disputes, war, famine, and travellers wandering highways (or, in our times, mall alleyways). Yet,despite 911, despite military involvement in Afghanistan and Iraq, despite poverty, gang violence and familial abuse, we in North America feel that the battle between light and dark is being fought elsewhere. Thinkers, writers and even scientists are warning that earth is at the cusp of a big change but most of us do not realize that we are choosing sides through our daily actions.
The side of light is well represented, but like light itself, is sometimes hard to see. Light is most present in simple everyday acts. Just yesterday, I drove past the corner where a young man dances regularly. This is a very busy corner, intersecting an east-west highway with a north-south artery. Traffic invariably backs up and drivers fume as they sit still in their cars.
In about 2000 or 2001, I first noticed a boy about 14 or 15 years, bundled up against the cold in winter, with headphones on, grooving to the music. When light signals changed, that would be his stimulus to move to the next corner, still bopping as he crossed the street. I worried why he wasn't in school, but I worried more if he wasn't there. Seasons and years went by and still, "The Dancing Boy" was out in all weather dressed appropriately and dancing. Drivers stopped fuming and watched and traffic seemed to move all the better itself when "The Dancing Boy" traversed the corners.
Yesterday when I saw "The Dancing Boy", he was astride his bicycle adjusting his music player. A dozen multi-coloured balloons were tied to the handlebars and danced in the wind. I wondered what the occasion was but realized there was no occasion needed. It was May 14 and snowing. What other reason is needed for balloons to brighten a dark day?
Today, I saw a force of light leaving a dark truck. I had gone to the garden centre needing green after yesterday's snow. The truck was typical. Large and looming, it impeded me as I tried to park. As I got out of my car, I was surprised that two little girls were lifted out of the truck by their father. A few minutes later, I was walking down the aisle of the garden centre and heard a shopping cart directly behind me. I stepped out of the way. The metal cart was being pushed by the truck owner, with one daughter sitting in the cart and the other one walking beside. As the older daughter passed, she looked up at me and said "thank you". I replied "you're welcome".
The little girl's words and actions are illuminating. And by her actions, she is setting an example to me and to her father, who deep inside is likely still a vulnerable and scared little boy. Without our armour, without our big trucks and houses, without our brand names, we can see one another as we truly are.
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