“More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d”
———-
“It’s the small moments that life is about,” Mr. Donde lecutes us about the views of the Romantics. Then explains the meaning of John Keeats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” And I just sit in wonder: how could such a simple-seeming poem mean all that? But it made perfect sense. It’s much better to expeience forever the moment before the goal is reached, the dream is fulfilled — the passion, the hope, the emotion that surges through you right before grasping what is within reach — than to have that flash of extasy and later experice dissapointment. And I realize that I used to cherish those moments Keats speaks about, absorb every feeling and current surounding and lock it forever in my memory to revisit for years to come. But I’ve lost that part of myself. And as much as it hurts to loose someone else, it hurts even more to loose yourself. So today as I walked out of Donde’s classroom I told myself “I’m going to start treasuring those moments again.”
On the way to the post office to mail Jannell’s gift I tell Alisa, “Look in my wallet; count how much money I have.” She looks. She counts. “Seven dollars,” she says. “Seven dollars! That’s it. Oh that’s not going to be enough.” But it’s too late to turn back.
Thankfully there is no line when we arrive and we spend two minuets decieding what type of packaging we should send the gift in before we decied. I turn to the man waiting behind the counter “How much is this,” I ask him, holding a large padded envelope up in my hand. And as I walk towards him so that he can look for the price and show me, I explain to him what we are sending. “It might get broken,” he speculates. “….I know… What do you suggest we pack it in?” I ask, my doubt showing in my voice. He says that he might have a box, and disappears behind the wall. He reappears holding a box that looks just the right size. Picking up the gift, he puts it inside — its a little too long for the box but “we can make it work,” he says and suggests that I walk outside and buy a newspaper to stuff it with.
After getting change, I come back inside to pack it up, praying that my seven dollars will be enough once we go though all this trouble. As the man at the counter weighs it, the man who helped us tells him its just regular price. And again I pray that I have enough. Numbers flash on the screen: $9.20, $2.50, $6.40, and I wonder which ones will finally end up the winning numbers. “$8.25.” the post man says as the three numbers freeze on the screen. ‘Maybe God will magically turn my $7 into $8 like the loaves and fishes,’ I speculate to myself then pray that it is true as I count it out. But there is only $6. “I don’t have enough,” I say to him as I look up from my wallet. And the man who helped us says “It’s okay we will send it, you can come back and pay us later.”
Now, I’ve heard stories of doughnut shop cashiers not even letting regular customers walk out with their Sunday morning’s dozen doughnuts because they were 18 cents short. Two dollars and twenty-five cents might not be a fortune but it is surely not a penny. And I’m only at the post office maybe six times a year. So, amazed, I gave them many thanks, drove home, grabbed more money and hopped in the car to drive right back.
But on the way, in the silence of the car, my gratefulness turned into the obligation to do something in return for them. I almost thought about turning around again and baking them each a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies. But the plaza is right next to the post office and in the plaza is Borders and in Borders there surely must be something I can by them or a thank you card that I can sign. Why not? I thought. This will only happen once and I need to sieze this moment — make the most out of it. And so I did.
Twenty minuets later I sit in the blue mini van parked behind Miry’s, I lock the doors (gotta be safe), open the blank card, take out my pen and in flowing cursive largely write “Thank you for your kindness.” Then I pause to think before proceeding. “You have been so helpful and generous,” I continue, in smaller plain printing. Thinking more I remember my Bible in my purse — I must include a verse. I finish the card, “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to make us feel special!” sign my name, then search for the perfect verse. Finally I write:
Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. - Matthew 5:5-7
As I write, a young college-aged man walks behind the van and opens the door of the white car next to me, gets in, sits, looks around the car frantically, gets out his phone, makes a call, gets no answer, hangs up in distress, and just waits. With my card finished I wonder what to do. Clearly he knows I am here. Clearly I can see he is there. Yet should we just go on, each of us leading our own lives seperated by a sheet of metal and glass while each of us could be in direr need of the other. I sit and contemplate it for a minuet. I turn off the engine, turn off the radio, look at him and wait for eye contact as I slide over to the passenger seat, and open the door. He looks at me and opens his as well. I parked too close to open the door enough to even stick my head out but I ask him nonetheless, “Do you need anything?” Quickly and sternly he answeres “No.” And even though neither of us believe him, we shut our doors. What more can I do? And I pray for him. As I back up I see an “Obama ‘08″ sticker on his bumper and a nursing school university frame around his lisence plate. There is much more to his story, I am convinced….
And it just makes me wonder how many people go though life alone with everyone around them pretending like they don’t see them. Like “Ryan party of one” at the Roadhouse Grill a year ago, or the man I made eye contact with as I turned left from Nelson onto Brockton today, or the woman wearing two jackets but still cold pacing back and forth and looking around outside of Taco Bell as our family sat inside, separted only by a window, warm and full. Or the girl I walked in front of, each of us alone as we hurry off to classes in different directions. What about them? What about me?
I don’t know if that was really what I am trying to say… but just, can we stop isolating ourselves? Can we step out of our comfort zone, our car, our house, our seat, to say hi to someone or smile at someone or be kind to someone we have never seen and may never see again? Can we do that? Because America, people, the world, has become too isolated, too self-centered, to do that… And I’d like to see that change.
Starting with me.
