A Tiny Exquisite Moment…

As I listen to my new friend, Pete is providing enough information for us to apply for a loan or get a security clearance so we might play tennis in sweltering heat with an inevitable outcome - I will lose. I hope they take their time because I have a feeling this gal has a story she is itching to share. And really, don't we all? I know sometimes it seems like our own lives are bland compared to what we read on facebook. But listen - Facebook is not real, it is a vehicle used to advertise things we do not need but feel we must have to be happy. What's real are these stories! These marvelous, rich, amazing stories of everyday flesh and blood people whom we come in contact with randomly...for a purpose.

I pray for you a long line today. I hope you meet a stranger who tells you a marvelous and wondrous tale. Or maybe you are the stranger who will tell your story to another and in the sharing there will be a little spark of recognition, a glimmer of essence, a tiny exquisite moment of joy in the seeing of another creature, made in the very image of God.

The Growing Up and the Growing Old

She had a strong German accent and was dressed from head to toe in a canary yellow tennis ensemble. Pete and I were standing in line at the local YMCA near our favorite vacation spot. For the last few years he and I try to get away for some quiet time to rest and recharge our batteries - McBean style. This means working out, paddle boarding, kayaking, foosball, walking, ping pong, etc. The 'etc.' also includes tennis, once we found a local Y that would give us guest privileges to use their courts. Hence, standing in line. Although the Y may be small and intimate, the red tape to get through the door and onto the courts is not.

As we shift from foot-to-foot, filling out forms and answering a multitude of questions, up comes the canary clad lady. The front desk clerk, a cheery woman who helps us get into the inner sanctum every year, acknowledges her presence with an apologetic nod to us - the knuckleheads causing the hold up.

"I can wait," she says as she sizes me up. "You know, we play doubles tennis here and we are always looking for....well, you know...new people." I really do think she was working hard to not say, 'fresh meat'. We remained silent and non-committal. She was just getting warmed up.

"You know," she leans in, "I'm of a certain age. My children think I cannot order at a restaurant for myself or make my own decisions." She shrugs. "My kids are in their sixties! You'd think they'd have more pressing matters to attend to. I'm too busy with my sports and other commitments to keep them apprised of my goings and comings!"

Sixties? Her kids are in their sixties?

"My own children seem to think we're old," I nod at Pete. "They're very concerned that we take good care of ourselves in the midst of a pandemic and whatnot."

"Well, that's only reasonable," she replies briskly. "But what I take offense at is feeling....smothered."

One lovely element of receiving stories includes the opportunity to find common ground. I, refusing to share a common enemy (because it is a cheap and tawdry substitute for true connection), particularly appreciate how often, almost inevitably, we humans can find meaningful connection. Today, we connect in this moment of shared knowing. I am the age of her children, but somehow, with careful listening comes a shared experience. I have children too. And no matter the actual age, the generational divide is there. Mother and daughter. Mother and son. The elder, the younger. The growing up and the growing old.

Waiting in Lines…

"You need to write a book about all the stories people tell you while we are waiting in lines," said Pete. He has a point.

I countered, "If I wrote THAT book, I would call it..."PLEASE Keep Telling Me Your Stories," which did not thrill him. He is not as big a fan of the long and winding road one travels when listening to a stranger. But I love every mile.

People are so interesting. They have so much to share!

When I was sad and lonely, depressed and anxious, it was hard for me to show up for listening. I tried. I did my best because this is a core value of mine. But for me, and maybe I'm just weird (ok, I am weird), listening requires a certain kind of spiritual presence. We can learn how to improve our listening skills and fall back on those when needed. Sometimes that is the best we can do. But it is an anemic substitute for the pure joy that comes when I fall head over heels in love with someone else's story.

When I am not sad, lonely, depressed and anxious, one of my favorite things is listening to the stories people share. I will do it under any condition (the aforementioned sad, lonely, depressed and anxious) but when I am able to bring my healthiest self to the conversation, oh the joy!

Tomorrow, have I got a story for you!

Beach Distractions

One evening a man sat in a rickety lawn chair surrounded by pigeons. His chair was festooned with flags which presented onlookers a bit of an insight into his values. When the birds began to wander off, he would toss seeds vigorously into the air and the flock would return to nibble on the bounty. I thought this was a totally freaky sight to behold. Mary Poppins tunes played as a background sound track in my head. Norah paid him no attention.

I was curious about Norah's lack of interest in a sight I considered strange - until I realized that everything about the beach is new to Norah. I tried to notice what Norah noticed - unsullied by her own bad assumptions and judgments and prior experiences. Nature held her spellbound - sand, sea, puddles, sand fiddlers and sand castles. She showed only a slight preference for people her size versus the grown ups who were quite taken with our little running, jumping, laughing sprite in a pink hat and coordinating beachwear. Mostly, she longed to dance in the waves.

One difference between children and us older people seems to be our comparing minds. Shell collectors compare among the millions of tiny shell pieces to find the best shell among the offerings. We adults compare body type and swimwear options or who has the most clever solution for creating shade on a sunny day. Boys check out girls and girls check out boys. Surfer novices side-eye their fellow students. What a distraction!

I wonder how much we miss when we are so distracted by our comparing, judging minds.

Searching for Shells

In July, Pete and I received and accepted a lovely invitation to go on a beach vacation with our granddaughter, Norah. Norah let her parents come too. I love the beach. But what I love even more is seeing the beach through the eyes of a three year old. Talk about awe!

Norah would stay on the beach and at the water's edge to infinity and beyond. But she spends her time behaving in ways that are exactly opposite of how adults spend their time. I learned a lot watching her. First, Norah does not hoard.

At Folly Beach, research reports that there are two BIG unique components to Folly. 1. More sharks come here to birth their babies in the spring than other places and 2. It has a ton of shells. No one seemed overly concerned about sharks, but the adults are obsessed with collecting shells.

They walk slowly along the water's edge, humped over, scanning the shell-line (yes, there is one) for the perfect shell. Most have small satchels slung over their shoulder to hold their finds. They never look up or around; they do not gaze lovingly at the sea wondering what lies beyond the horizon. They do not watch the birds dive for fish. They pay no attention to the young children learning to surf. They are on a mission and it is all-consuming.

Norah, on the other hand, spent the entire week returning things to the sea. She would find a shell and run into the ocean, hurling it back into the same water that spit it out moments before she found it. She threw handfuls of sand back too. Anything that seemed like it came from the sea, she sent it back with peels of laughter and delight.

Her eyes glanced down to find shells or sand for recycling even as she feasted on sights unique to the beach - on Folly Beach there are many sights to see.

I couldn't help but think about the difference between the two experiences of Norah and the shell-seekers. One looked as if they were afraid of missing something, while Norah assumed that the world was created to give her things that she could turn around and give back.

Which are you? Do you feel that you have to grab in order to get? Or do you believe the world is an abundant place with much to offer with plenty of opportunities to give back as an act of gratitude?