And Would You Like To Be A ....?

Watching the squirrel one day, and fascinated as I was by his movements, it suddenly hit me that if the Hindu paradigm could ever be established as "it" in the universe, I would opt out of reincarnating on Earth as a rodent. Even an adorable one. Lots of other less desirable paths as well, at least to my mind. I turned to Mom and blurted, "I'm coming back as a horse, just so you know, if the Eastern religions prevail. A wild horse. Just FYI."

Now Mom is about as into Eastern religion as much as I am, probably for different reasons, but she played along when I asked her what she would want to come back as, should she be reincarnated. "A dog; I'd like to be petted all the time."

I'd not asked for any specifics, but oh! the insight that gave. Seeing as I was giving her 2 hour massages every night, the petting was obvious.

Made me think about why the wild horse was the immediate image that came to my mind. Having always loved horses, it seemed so natural. But the intoxication of racing through life, wind in your hair, adrenalin in your heart, freedom in your nostrils; what could beat that?

Never having been one for psychology, numerology, or the like, I was a little intrigued nonetheless, at how we were pretty in touch with our own identities. Astrology and all those endless magazine tests that "reveal" what your favorite color says about you have always been so much hocus pocus to me. But in thinking of this animal connection, it's only me telling me about myself. Nobody imposing their notions on me. No right or wrong, no pressure. Not totally definitive, but interesting nonetheless.

So the next person I asked, answered "Quail." Unusual, no? But the reason he immediately proffered was, "I like belonging, the feeling of family."

So 3 for 3. I think it's an interesting momentary exercise. What's the first thing that came to your mind about what you'd choose if you could when you first started reading this? Why?

Doris

110 degrees this afternoon, but feels like twice that. I am unloading my Albertson's shopping cart and the minute the things are transferred to my car, I am overtaken by the nefarious urge to enter said vehicle and turn on the air conditioning and try to revive myself before the 5 block trip home.

Unwillingly, I notice the cart corral off in the distance. Blasted peripheral vision. There are no cars in the vicinity, and fleetingly I let myself off the hook. "Stupid to have to push this cart all the way down there, when it's obstructing nothing. Just farther away for the guys to go to round it up later," I mutter to the oppressive superheated concrete. As I grab the handle and head for the cart camping ground, I notice another couple of carts here and there, and grab their hot little hands as well as we promenade on down to the finish line. I curtsy and take leave of the carts.

"What an utter waste of energy and time," myself tells myself. And I agree. But what else could I do? Ever since that night in Vista, CA a couple of decades ago.

It was midnight. And I was shopping at the grocery store in my usual daze of trying to accomplish it all (I tend to run a few hours, perhaps days, behind everyone else, but it's not a race, right?). As I left the practically empty store with my valuables, there she was, bringing her cart all the way back to the inside of the store.

"Doris," I said, "hi there, what on earth are you doing? It's midnight; dark out, see? For heaven's sake, you shouldn't be out here alone, much less returning a dumb cart!"

"Oh," she blushed, "I just hate to think of those young boys out here having to worry about taking care of this."

I smiled, and shook my head. You see, Doris was about 80, diabetic, fragile in a dozen ways; she could barely walk, even with the help of her cane. She lived in a small trailer park, and had lived a very hard life. Everyone should have been worried about taking care of her. But in a very small and humble way she taught me a very big and important lesson. Caring. What a way to live.

See, Doris. This one's for you. You're long gone. But not forgotten.

"And I Think To Myself, What a Wonderful World"

Leaving Chicago any minute. Jet engines are revved. We are all dutifully seatbelted in, electronic devices off.

Even though it's exciting to anticipate seeing loved ones I have missed this entire month, these 30 days have brought the loved ones I miss most of the year even closer. And so it's hard to go.

Hard as well to leave the layers and layers of resplendent green here as I race back to the desert. Having spent the previous 3 months in San Diego, seduced and spoiled by the lush palms, jacarandas, acacias, bougainvillea, and jasmine, I am stunned to realize that very scenery pales next to the irrepressible smorgasbord of botanical excess in the Garden Spot of the Midwest. That being my hometown of Elgin, Illinois and its surrounding environs. In all modesty.

I'm not talking here about the manicured trees and tulips on the Magnificent Mile in Chicago; I'm talking about the infinite timbered vistas assailing your eyes as you drive along myriad highways and byways, gleaming river ribbons teasing their way through the verdant opulence. Where man has not cleared and built, the emerald forests are relentless. And on the streets where homes have been planted less recently, there, arboreal majesty holds sway; often there are streets where lofty green gloved branches reach out to hold hands above, and shady canopies seamlessly dapple the persistent sunlight below.

The wonder I feel as my thirsty eyes drink in this green profusion is on par with the awe I experience when losing myself in the vastness and color of the Grand Canyon, being transfixed by the monumental impact of "purple mountains majesty," or being seduced by the hypnotic evermore of the crashing ocean waves.  How so much beauty, surrounding us, cradling us, thrilling us, could ever have come to be, so infinite and spectacular, if not from a source so infinite, so spectacular itself?

These must be the storybook lands of Snow White, Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty. The mysterious forests of fairytales. No?  Not technically, I guess.  But. These vast and powerful armies of maple and oak, sycamore and ash, elm and pine and more are vibrant and virile as the Alpine forests and the Buchenwald (Black Forest) itself which soared my heart in those Old World lands I lived in long ago.

But it's here and now the summer glory finds my vision, feeds my spirit. And all that's required of me is to be still.  Notice the willows?  Oh, those weeping willows!  Unrivaled elegance.  The immensity of grace. Giants here fed generously by river and rain.  Could Eden have been so arrayed?  Punctuated by droves of lily, purple sage, bright geranium, delicate Queen Ann's lace, peony, pansy, petunia and on and on and on.  Staggering diversity, finally triumphant. Replete with exuberant sound track... choirs of birds of every stripe attired in multicolored robes. Here a pair of bright red cardinals, there a sunny yellow finch.

Life. Loving itself.

I'll be back.

Much Ado About....

School days, school days. Remember good old fashioned chalkboards, and those random moments when the chalk would screech across the board and mount a surprise physical assault, making you shudder in pain and driving you into fits of apoplexy?

There are other forms of attack in the here and now. It has recently come to my attention that I may err slightly on the side of over reacting when accosted by my favorite phrase of the moment, "Enjoy!" Uttered by virtually every waitress, waiter, server from Vegas to Venice, I suppose.  Inevitably has the opposite effect on me, and ruins my meal, if not my day.  Chalk moment.  How I have come to dread eating out.

How could such an innocuous word, one designed to bring pleasure and delight straight to the heart, spear a shard of discontent to my rebellious soul? Am I simply and resolutely determined to never smile?

Perhaps.

BUT. Truth is, I can manage an upturned mouth for most other occasions. I have a benevolent soul and am civil and polite under most circumstances. So why does this one word send me over the cliff?

I think it began a year ago, when out for dinner at a new little Italian restaurant in Henderson. Maybe the waitress just had a little extra time on her hands to "make nice", seeing as there were only two guys at another table in the corner, and they may well have worked there. "Enjoy!" she exclaimed as she seated us. Sure enough, hon, I'm up for it. Fact is, that's seriously why I'm here. Go figure.

She brought us menus. "Enjoy!" as she sashayed on her way. Well why not? I thought. I had secretly kind of planned to do that anyway, encouragement or not.

Yet again, after she took our order and brought out bread sticks. "Enjoy!" Look, is there some kind of a chance I will momentarily sink into utter despair if I am not urged to do otherwise? Does it appear that I have just been liberated from a concentration camp and have to make up for time lost during repeated torture? Could she divine that I had lost touch, forgotten how? Bless her heart, for reaching out and rescuing me from falling back into the pit!

Bet you can't guess what she said when she brought us our food. Yep. Just in case we forgot to all on our own. Had she detected my enjoyment level ebbing, one more time? Had she intervened at the critical moment and administered emotional CPR and saved the day? The pressure had built. I savored every bite. With all my might. Didn't dare not to. Trying to keep my mouth closed and chew with an enthralling smile plastered from ear to ear.

And then, the check. This latest light of my life waltzed over with the damages, and radiantly beaming at us, handed it over with the admonishment, "Enjoy!"

Seriously?

I suppose it's anticlimatic to add the parting word thrown our way as we departed this haven of delight.

Well, rock my world. Back from the brink. I could not have had such a stellar evening without her constant exhortation to so do. How do you even begin to thank someone who so mindlessly takes to heart your welfare?

Is it just me? Or are they enjoining you as well to sidle up to the table of life and get with the program? I maintain they are reaching out to all humanity in this selfless effort. Ladies and gentlemen, it is the cloned waitpersons/servers of the restaurants of the world, who make all the difference, who have taken it upon themselves to save us from ourselves, and the grim possibility of having to experience any disenjoyment or unenjoyment of any sort. One person; one. same. simple. word. at. a. time.

From that moment on, I have had, shall we say, an adverse reaction to the E word. Screeching chalk on the chalkboard. Call it an allergy, if you will. Whenever a server spits it out, I recoil and have flashbacks of being strapped to the Labor & Delivery Table in the Hospital, in an extreme condition, with an all knowing male, of course, Dr. spewing the R word. ("Relax") As if.

Sure, I'm a humbug. Nevertheless. These one word exclamations. Command performances, are they not? Stop. Go. Smile. Sing. Shutup (had to make it one word or blow my premise). Look, take it for granted that if I'm tickling you, I'll eventually stop. I will go too, when I think it's time. I'll smile if I want to. And if I'm in the Choir, you won't need to preach to me to get me to sing. It's what I signed up for. As for shutup, well that's just never gonna happen, unless I happen to be singing and you roll your eyes. But enjoy? Please don't make me. Let me decide when, where, how for myself, ok?

Having waitressed a summer myself back in the long ago, I have wondered if I had ever resorted to the E word myself. Guilt is the code I live by. Even though my memory is on permanent vacation, I am certain that we had no such verbal shorthand back in the day. "Can I bring you anything else?"- maybe. Or  "Let me know how you like it"/"I'll check and see how you're doing in a few minutes"/ "I'm pretty sure the cook didn't really spit in this/ "Belly up"/"Want fries with that?"  Who knows. Whatever the situation, or people at the table warranted. Anything that was beyond the little routine one size fits all blurt.

What's wrong, after all, with the possibility of not enjoying one's chosen meal? Less than substantial tip?

Last month, against all odds, we were out on the town, daunted though I was to be once more ensconced in the familiar arms of a public eatery. Too soon after we ordered, the waitress reappeared with our food. Whoa, I hadn't had time to take a yoga breath. The moment of truth, and no Zen back up. When she opened her mouth, I cringed. Then a soft "Hope you like it." Stop the presses! Are we no longer in America?? Tears came to my eyes. I could barely lift my fork. Swallow? Beyond the pale. I was overcome with sheer joy! Remarkably, I found myself unexpectedly "in joy" in spite of myself. Imagine that.

I know it goes against the grain. Here we have the ubiquitous Stepford servers, who are all programmed to mindlessly mimic each other and endlessly cajole us with their two syllable admonishment. And then out of nowhere, a breath of fresh air. Lo and behold. A thinking person. A far cry from the maddening crowd. At long last, I have hope again.

And did I mention she got quite the generous, heartfelt tip?

(Still and all, it's enough to make a vegetarian like me consider going to McDonald's where I only have to handle the cashier's robotic "Have a nice day!" -  Don't even get me started!)