Last summer I took another job like the one I wrote about several years ago. Working with great people and immensely enjoying doing what I'm good at, although I was happy to leave when the time came.
I am disappointed that I let this last gig kick in my "type A" behavior so quickly again. I missed summer, the garden went to pot, and I didn't have much fun. I never took the sailing lessons I planned on and didn't bike as much as I planned for my health. I have no one to blame but myself.
I did take pretty good care of my spiritual life this time. I kept to my regular disciplines and groups, and that was a huge help. I read about centering prayer and Buddhism which helped me disengage or detach from situations I would have ruminated about unceasingly. In times of serious duress, I was able to pull myself back into the present moment by practicing mindfulness.
I also got involved with a nonprofit. I loved writing about it and helping build a good website, but in the end, decided that it wasn't my dream. It was someone else's. I've done that before. I'm getting too old to give my time away to help others accomplish their dreams while mine are put a way in a drawer for when I have time. It was a small price to pay to learn more about myself.
My aunt turned 97 earlier this month. She had a stroke in December. We thought it was the end. But she is a fierce woman. A depression era baby and an Army veteran from World War II, her generation doesn't give up easily. She wanted to return to her board and care where she had her own room and belongings and worked unbelievably hard to go back.
Now we're working hard with physical therapists, nurses and caregivers. It's been an up and down experience. Some days it seems that we should just resign ourselves to skilled nursing. The other day the visiting nurse thought my aunt was literally dying. I called our family. Then she woke up and ate her entire lunch and continued her day as though nothing had happened.
Monday when I was so tired, I sat down on the couch in the living room with the caregiver just to hang out for a few minutes. One of the other residents was humming over and over to herself. I asked if that ever got on their nerves. The caregiver said that if it does, she has a small songbook of favorite old songs she can get her to sing. We started singing "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" because I remembered that one from my grandmother. The resident joined right in and knew every word even though she also thought I was her daughter.
We opened the songbook and sang a bunch of the old songs. Pretty soon the other residents in the living room were singing along. They knew all the words. My family will tell you I'm not much of a singer, but that afternoon I felt like one. My voice was clear and straight, and I knew the tunes so well that I was confident. I also knew no one else would hear me except the residents of the care home who don't even know who I am. It's like that old saying "dance like no one is watching you." It was a magical moment, and I am so grateful I was there and not at work.
The next day was hard because I had to run errands for my aunt, help with her exercise and her therapist along with more intimate care giving I never imagined myself doing. As I waited for her caregiver to have a free moment, the "singer" was worrying about some little thing. I helped her with her blanket, and she said she was so lucky to have a daughter like me, that I was so thoughtful and did so many kind things in the world. As she said this, she held my hand in hers and patted it. I told her "thank you," and then I said "I love you too" as I went back to my aunt's room.
That night when I got to my mailbox and saw that a payment I've been waiting for wasn't there, I was disappointed, tired, and still needed to go to the store for dinner. Cooking dinner most nights is sometimes stressful or demanding on top of a long hard day where I've also tried to do my half hour walk and go to the gym. But most nights it's an important ritual that makes life seem more normal.
I fought the parking lot traffic and slumped my way into Whole Foods with my grocery list in my head (this is dangerous). Right away I heard music that didn't sound like it was coming from the speaker system. A saxophone, guitar and drum set up in the front of the store echoed music across the hard floors and open ceiling of the large store.
It immediately made me smile. The music was right up my alley, jazzy and sort of my era. And I love saxophones. I was immediately uplifted. I smiled at every shopper as I pondered the produce and thoughtfully read the tortilla labels (why do they put wheat in corn tortillas now?). I soaked up the lush colors of the cut flowers and chose a checkout stand nearest the music so I could see the small band named "B Sharp" play. It fed my soul and refreshed me.
The musicians were in the middle of a song as I approached with my groceries. I clasped my hands together at my chest and bowed in thanksgiving, dropping a small tip in their jar and walked out smiling into the cold, crisp night air where the large moon lit the night sky. I was grateful for the small graces I could have missed without the years of spiritual practice that helped shape me and lead me to those moments. Music and grace. Amen.
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