“I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.”
Maya Angelou
Hope in Small Doses
The day’s news.
The details of a bloody shooting
rise with the same tone of voice
a stranger would use to give directions
to a local parking lot. Then a commercial appears
advising a product to prevent hair loss.
Compassion and energy
struggle to appear in human form.
Then a toddler grandchild
reaches out with a smile made of fresh energy.
A closer place of love emerges.
And while I can’t make the world kinder,
I can begin by planting hope into this moment.
The other side of the bus door would become a faraway adventure to another state. Faraway, a vague notion that showed up only in Lucy’s story books. The little-kid kind. The ones she could read. She told her boss at the thrift shop where she had worked that she wanted to wait for the bus alone. She would be okay. The new place wanted her, and that made her happy. She could be the strong middle-aged woman her body said she was.
She felt the stare of a small boy who could be five, standing next to her. She knew what he saw. An awning-sized forehead, small green-pea-sized eyes, and a jaw as square and pocked as a sidewalk block. Didn’t matter. Bigger people stared, too. Maybe grown folk weren’t as blunt about it as kids. They were all rude.
Lucy’s mother had a troubled pregnancy and delayed birth. Lucy’s brain didn’t get sufficient oxygen. She understood why that made her learning slow, kind of. But she couldn’t see why she had to be ugly, too.
She turned toward the boy, slightly. He paused, then buried his head into the shoulder of the woman with him. She leaned toward the other side of the long bench, her eyes closed, and either sighed or moaned. Lucy couldn’t tell. She stayed focused on the door that would open soon, her exit from the impossible, thanks to the kind woman she worked for at the thrift store, who saw her frequent bruises and wouldn’t stop asking about them.
But Lucy didn’t have the money for rent and all the bills that came with living alone. She had to stay with her father. He apologized later. Said he missed Lucy’s mother, and couldn’t get over her death. That’s what set him off. How could a woman as good as his wife get cancer? But he wasn’t nice to her before she died, not that Lucy could remember. And apologies didn’t help when, in a drunken rage, he stepped on Lucy’s chest and broke a rib.
Lucy cried in the bathroom at work because each breath brought a nasty stab. That’s when her boss insisted that she tell the truth. Now. The police came in, and her father ended up in jail. Summer and winter mingled inside Lucy, next to the hurt, both relief and rejection. But her boss turned her confusion into spring. She had a friend who owned a sprawling three-hundred-acre farm. She offered Lucy a home and a job in her house. However, Lucy would have to move to Indiana, more than a hundred miles away. The friend would pay for the bus ticket. Lucy’s boss added a word new to Lucy: stipulation. Her father could not visit until he had been paroled for two years and sprouted wings and a halo.
Lucy fidgeted with the handle on her suitcase. She hoped she had everything she needed: a few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts and sweatshirts, a worn coat wadded into a ball, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. A half-dozen storybooks.
She looked into the glass door of the parked bus but got lost in her own reflection and winced, frightened. Did her boss tell her friend how ugly she was?
The little boy got up from the bench and came closer to her this time. He tapped her on the elbow. “Scuse me,” he said. “You going to Shelbyville, too?”
Lucy nodded.
“My Uncle Red brought me and my mommy here, but he had to go to work. She can’t walk good. Can you help her get on the bus?” he said. “Please?”
A man disconnected the guard rope.“Be glad to,” Lucy said, noticing the woman for the first time, as she leaned into a worn suitcase and grabbed a cane. The woman breathed as if she were in pain.
“It’s a long ride to Indiana,” Lucy said as she took a few steps forward. “If you like, I have some storybooks with me. My favorites.” “Okay,” the boy said. “I got some, too. Let’s share.”Lucy linked an arm around the younger woman’s waist as she looked at Lucy as if she had wings and a halo instead of a broken face. A good omen.
The line paused as tickets were checked.
Lucy whispered. “I have a small pillow with me. It’s new and clean. Your mama can use it. But can I ask if you or your mom have trouble with your eyes? Is your vision okay?”
“We see just fine,” the boy answered. “Why do you ask?”
She laughed and turned to the boy’s mother. “Okay, ma’am, My name is Lucy. I’m glad to meet you. One, two, three, go.” For both of us.
This moment happened weeks ago, but I recall it now as the wind threatens to chill me from my ears all the way down to the tips of my toes. Winter is inevitable.
November 2, and my hands are begging the sun to appear soon. I’m outside the polls with others who care about the needs of the people. My fellow workers bring warmth, even laughter. But they can’t defy the whims of Mother Nature.
I smile at everyone who comes through whether they show interest in what we offer or not. Some are cordial. Only a few are not. A gentleman arrives with a box. Inside are treats and something even more welcome. Glove warmers.
“They are for anyone,” he says. He does not ask whether we cheer red or blue or some strange version of purple.
The sun arrives on time. Gold, orange, and red shine in the trees. The leaves will not be there forever. “None of us claim infinite youth,” I say. And my comrades laugh. They are not youngsters either.
Warmth, it comes from both the inside and the outside. Perhaps someday Maya Angelou can speak for all—a safe place for citizens who put both feet forward onto the blacktop here because the individuals who were voted in, took their positions as missions, not a stance or a power. This will take a lot of time in this fractured country. I pray it happens whether I am on this earth anymore or not.
Autumn and peace. I watch the leaves fall. And pray space opens for people to live truth.
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. (Maya Angelou)
For when you experience more crack than sidewalk. And the news inside and outside your house could depress a saint. For the times when you explode over a request that overloads your already sinking-ship schedule. For the moments when the basement floods and you find a dry milk carton in the refrigerator…
May joy and laughter return in simple moments. A sunny day when rain was predicted. A call from a friend. A call to a friend. A smile from a stranger. A smile extended to a stranger. The realization that you have value no circumstance can erase.
Success is liking yourself, liking what you do, and liking how you do it. (Maya Angelou)
Ella finds two dolls inside the top floor of the dollhouse set up in the library. The male figure is noticeably smaller than the female doll. Nevertheless, they become Daughter and Daddy. Daughter and Daddy are their names.
One staircase and three floors is incidental. No problem. The characters move to the higher levels as if walls and open air did not exist. Hops are required on stairs. I become Daddy. Ella is Daughter.
When I comment that the leap from Daughter’s bedroom to attic has been a doozy, Ella does not respond. Either she is too involved in the game, or the slang term doozy is outdated.
“Carry me to bed, Daddy,” she says.
One plastic doll next to the other looks more like the letter X. But I have been living in the real world too long.
“Okay.”
And the same scenarios repeat. In cycles so rapid day and night have no meaning. The relationship between child and father does.
“Carry me to bed, Daddy.” Followed by, “Daughter needs ear drops.”
And Daddy carries Daughter safely—over the chasm of rooms that have no entrance or exit. Her ear infection disappears within two minutes per the library clock, and perhaps four trips up one set of toy stairs and one jump into the impossible.
I am Grandmother. Playing a role. When I first sat down on the floor my mind was immersed in the plot for a short story for grownups. It got sidelined temporarily. Somewhere between make-believe and the profound. In make-believe I enter the imagination of a little girl with special needs and special love.
Daddy is always available, whether he is big enough for the task or not. He shines. Daughter’s physical problems dissolve. Ella idolizes her father.
I speak in hushed tones. This is a library. Ella talks as if she were in the toy room in my house. A woman sits at an adjoining table. She does not complain. When Grandpa pulls out his car keys as we get ready to go, Ella offers to drive.
The woman bursts out laughing. She has been amused, not annoyed. I am happy to have the job of grandma.
Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. (Arthur Ashe)
I can tell by the expression on a young friend’s face her news isn’t good. “No change in the tumors,” she says.
She reports no noticeable response to her chemotherapy regimen. She needs a miracle. Now. Something so dramatic it belongs in science fiction. An event the media could exploit. I want a cure that turns a staunch atheist into a street preacher. But I stay with the reality and look her in the eye.
I thank her for continuing to stand upright, giving what she has—sometimes more. I tell her about her innate goodness and hope she is able to recognize it, too. She shares an upbeat moment she had when she volunteered at vacation bible school.
“You’re the one who helped me,” a little boy said with enthusiasm. She had taken time with him on a project he had found difficult. I have no idea how well she felt that day. Nevertheless, she saw the beauty in the everyday, the glue-sticky-fingered mundane. I pray for that innate beauty to shrink her tumors. Eventually. Somehow. No matter how impossible that seems to be.
She does what she can…
Loss, I want to avoid it. That wish doesn’t come true, even in less serious matters. Today is the last day for a favorite aerobics instructor. She has found a full time job in her field. My good-byes are one of many.
Then I ask a member of the class how she is doing. She seems quieter than usual. Her brother-in-law has recently died. She is concerned for her husband as well. He was his only sibling.
Fortunately she is a hugger. I use my arms as comfort. They are the only tools I have. The woman’s brother-in-law will not return. But her smile tells me my arms are enough. For now.
This moment leads into the next as it plants possibilities into a limited, yet amazingly full existence.
There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that receives it. (Edith Wharton)
As I dust the front windowsill I realize my birthday cards have been on display for almost two months. Some of the messages are serious and genuine, some silly. I celebrate all of them. The cards are an opportunity for gratitude.
However, there is a fine line between gratitude and clutter. If I saved every thoughtful token I have ever received from friends, hoarding would replace genuine appreciation. The sun can’t shine through paper, even beautifully illustrated paper. I will save some cards for future illustration-inspiration. One friend copied a quote on slick paper. It will make a great bookmark.
No one thing lasts forever. Resentments can clutter, too. Sometimes people act in ways that reflect deep hurt—then they fling their pain around as weapons against those who have injured them. They take no responsibility for their choices. As long as the ball of discontent rolls, there is no time to recognize the loss of both logic and common sense. And the discontent grows deeper.
I think about that as I linger over the cards and shut out unhelpful thoughts concerning a recent situation that doesn’t directly involve me. It affects someone I care about. Nevertheless, it threatens my serenity. I have no control over another person’s choices. Light without shadow doesn’t exist in the real world. And resentments and anger can block out sun for years, sometimes a lifetime. I can’t help anyone if I play that game. Lashing out with quick judgment is tempting, but leads only to more lashing out.
I sigh and then pray for the highest good for the folk who would wish harm. Within minutes I notice that my breathing feels freer. The sky appears brighter, even though gray fills the clouds with promised rain.
However, the mirror reflecting the candle can shine on and on and on… Thanks to all my friends. For all you give and for all you are.
terrypetersen 