a hair’s breath of difference

Tuesday morning I kind of lost it. Now I’ve generally been feeling lost in the magnificent spaciousness of it all, the dilemma of how to live my life right now. Pretty seriously lost. This losing it early yesterday was different – more active, sharper, I’d have to say uglier. This after I felt I had genuinely begun to tease out internal interventions regarding my significant (read “wild”) mood swings. And then yesterday morning I lost it, and the best I could do was tie up my walking sneakers and take myself out into the day.

The fact is that as I was physically walking out through the front door of 1810 Broad it was clear to me I needed to do something drastic. Really. Nothing short of drastic was going to matter. And then I walked out into the morning and was immediately stunned by the beauty of the day. The grace of the early, gentle sun; the rolling hills; the palms, the firs; the softness of walking in the middle of the quiet streets; the warm, welcoming breeze. I felt so loved then. Akin to what my long-ago mentor Dick M. was always saying to me – “You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

Some two hours later I was in my Starbucks, writing, a Zen book waiting on the round table, when I saw an older couple come in. The man was directing his wife, clearly she could not see, and he walked her straight through the shop and out another door to a place of outside tables. I watched through the glass him very delicately arrange a chair so his wife could safely fall back into it. When he came back in to place their order something not quite drastic moved me to get up and walk over to the counter and ask if he needed any help. He gave me a look and said something like, “Oh, with my wife,” and said no thanks, but thanks. I went back and he got her coffee and brought it out to her, making sure she had a hold of it.

He came back in and ordered his and while waiting walked over to my table. He looked down at the Zen book and said, “I knew it. My wife has met the Dali Llama twice.” And then, “Why don’t you come out and sit with us.”

Carolyn and Bill. Both 83 years old. Sort of newlyweds. Living in a senior center down the street. Bill, it turns out, sober 55 years. He said there’s was “a love story” and Carolyn told me she’d been married and divorced and stayed single for the next 40 years so she could give to her Cal Poly daughters, and to herself. Be a giver. She said she could hear me, and looked at me, but could not see me. At one point I went back in and got her a straw.

I sat with them and shared a little – lonely, feeling a bit drastic, held by the loving arms of San Luis Obispo and the Central Coast. After a bit Bill asked for my phone number and said he would put the word out among his friends. There’s a kid who needs some help.

As I type this Tuesday’s not even over yet.