I Come to Praise the Dead: A Kind and Gentle Man

The first time that I met Mr. J was at a used car dealership in Arlington Virginia. I was in love with his daughter and had somehow convinced her to be my girlfriend. I was going to be meeting Mr. and Mrs. J and I was nervous. Let's see: their daughter was now involved in an interracial relationship with a woman. I just wasn't expecting a warm greeting. Her folks were buying her a car and she forced me to go along. And, just like that I loved them and they loved me.

At 90 years old Mr. J's life came to the kind of end befitting him and his spirit; telling jokes and laughing with his daughter in the emergency room, telling her he was ready when the doctor said the end was very near. There was never any question about us being there to mark his passing. I even shared personal information with my boss that I never would have, except to explain why I had to attend his funeral. Mr. and Mrs. J were like extra grandparents to my daughter when she was little. And, on the first birthday I had after my own parents died within 6 months of each other, it was Mr. and Mrs. J who gave me a parental happy-birthday-call. This call (which broke my heart with tenderness) even came years after their daughter and I stopped being spouses.

 I was driving our little contingent to his funeral at Arlington National Cemetery in my daughter's car (my daughter, her daughter, and me). In the traffic circle leading up to the entrance I disobeyed the lane arrows (poorly marked I should add) and was motioned over by the police officer who was waiting for someone to do the exact thing that I did. But, I smiled at him and was unafraid and really nice. I got a warning. It didn't matter.

My daughter and I stood with the rest of the family and friends of this most excellent, shining example of what can be done with the chance at life. Such a fine example of humanity that when the naval chaplain uttered the words, "a kind and gentle man" all heads nodded in agreement. As my daughter and I shed our tears my granddaughter turned to each of us to give comfort.

I was honored to be there and blessed to have known him.

It's Not You. It's Me. Really.

On a regular basis (not quite every day but lately more than I'd like) I have the strong urge to smack somebody up side the head. Whoo, thank the Divine for even the tiniest bit of self control. I have to admit it has served me pretty well for many years.

I can recall when I was 15 and opened up a can of WhoopAss on my younger sister. But (thanks to Divine assistance) did not drain it dry. What I remember most is how everything took on a magenta tint. Yes, I actually saw red. I pretty much scared her (and myself a little) into a new way of interacting with me.

Since that chaotic night I have: 1) just barely managed to avoid a school yard melee, 2) run someone down with my car, 3) walked away from two fist fights I was totally willing to have, 4) been part of a barroom scrap, and 5) followed a man half a city block yelling and scaring him. If I told you the story behind each of these adventures you'd probably agree that I had my reasons and they were understandable. Just the same, it bears repeating - whoo, thank the Divine for even the tiniest bit of self control because without it all of these would have been worse, details-at-11 worse.

Now, when the head smacking urge is coming upon me it's different than it was back in the day. There are so many reasons for the difference that it's kind of miraculous. I attribute it to growing older, accepting responsibility for my own life, learning to let go, and asking with each breath during my daily prayers and meditation to be more like God. 

I figure if The Source Of All is the source of all then it is my source. I am essentially Divine. But I suffer from spiritual memory lapses. Fundamentally, my prayer to be more like God is a humble prayer to better remember where I come from and who I am. Who I really am. So, I forgive the transgressions that inspire my lower tendencies. I forgive because the act of forgiving is the reminder for which I have prayed . I forgive because I know that I can. Forgiveness is a choice to which I can always marry myself. I forgive because I have been forgiven.

 The Forgiveness Project

Forgiving is like magic. In a breath, in a heartbeat I get transformed each and every time that I forgive. Each time that I forgive (myself and others) it's the real me, the little piece of The Source Of All whose nickname is my name, waving and smiling. At least that's how I picture it. 

I Love DC: Metro Bus Zen or How Do I Love Thee? No, Really How?

Things are changing on the X2 bus line. There are now a whole lotta riders of the middle class Caucasian persuasion.  I find myself being irritated by them. Here are some of the things that they do that I find irritating (taken from actual occurrences):


1) It's morning rush hour. I am sitting in the priority seats at the front of the bus. Two visibly healthy young white men get on the bus. One of them sits and leaves the seat right next to me empty. His friend remains standing and is pretty much blocking the aisle as people get on for the next 2 stops. Without knowing for certain it seems like he is specifically reluctant to sit right next to me. 

After a couple of stops with people having to squeeze by him he finally sits next to me. I can feel the fear on them. They are afraid to be on this bus. Maybe they are afraid to be on any bus. I'll allow that this could be it. But, I would guess it is the presence of all the black people that has them trying to wall themselves off with folded arms and oblivion. [Bus etiquette note: If you sit in the priority seats and you are not old or disabled or pregnant or carrying a child in your arms you must be prepared to get your ass up and move.]  


When I see that a hunched over old woman is about to board I get up and move further back in the bus.  She takes my seat. Two stops later a woman gets on walking with a cane and 2 men get on who look to be 70 years old and also walking with canes. The men struggle down the aisle to some available seats. The two young white men do not move. They avert their eyes from the woman leaning on her cane in front of them. But she is not averting her eyes from them. The more intently she looks at them the deeper they delve into their own, apparently important, conversation.

Finally, a black middle aged woman gives up her seat to the woman with the cane. This is her signal to begin "loud talking" the white guys.  She is publicly shaming them for their indifference to her. They just keep talking like she is not holding up their behavior for public examination. These seats are theirs, dammit. Or so their actions would say.  

2) Morning rush hour again. I am not in the back of the bus. But, I'm near the back door. I'm on the aisle sitting next to an older woman with a cane. She is taking up part of the seat meant for me. But that's okay. Between her cane and her shopping bag she needs a little extra space. Just the same, as we ride along she adjusts to give me more room.



The bus is filling with people as is almost always the case for this bus line, regardless of the time of day. But rush hour means we get packed in like oily fish. This means the aisles are jammed when she rings the bell for the next stop. She smiles at me to acknowledge the endeavor that she now faces - making her way through this crowd with her bag and her cane. I smile back so that she knows I am on this like stink on a pig.


Right before the bus stops I stand and slide into the aisle. Standing there is a white man who looks to be in his late 20s. He is texting. I stand right next to him and say, "excuse me". He does not move. I lean in very close and directly in his ear I say, "Xkuze me". He does not look at me. But, he does move. In the meantime, the bus has stopped and my seat mate is on her feet.

I turn back to her. "Which way do you want to go, sis"? I point to the back and front doors. "That way," she says nodding to the back. I turn back to Mr. Too-Busy-Texting-To-Care. In the voice that I use to demonstrate my power I say, "step that way" and use my body to make him move his.  But, now my seat mate has realized that she really shouldn't be trying to get off the back door what with the bag and the cane. I see it in her face.


So I yell, "coming off" and know that this should clear the aisle for her heading to the front. Right before I move out of her way I say to him, "step aside please".  And something happens. He sees us; me and the old woman. "Oh, sorry," he offers finally. 


I feel the irritation. The weariness of fighting against being erased. By the time I am sitting again I have let it go; only wishing that I could have gone without feeling it at all. And then just a moment after that I'm just grateful that I could let it go. Grateful that I had enough mojo to finally be seen and to clear a path for someone else.

There Was A Detour on the Road, But I'm Back

Ten days ago I logged into my ology.com blog to edit a new post on The Road to Happiness and it was gone. G-a-w-n! Not a trace left of Metrobus Zen or any of my other deepest sharings over the last 18 months. Damn, damn, damn! My anguish and dismay lasted about 2 minutes. Then I let them (the feelings and the posts) go. It is a testament to my spiritual growth that I managed this letting go quickly. It's also a testament that it broke my heart for those two minutes, deeply. 

It was messed up what ology.com did, no doubt. But I try to consistently let go of things that I cannot control. After 15 months without a job I learned not only to let go but discovered the joy that can be had in it. The posts from those months were like snapshots of that journey. They are lost but the journey isn't.

Thanks to a friend and a regular companion on TRH I have been able to salvage some of the earliest posts through the Wayback Machine site. Otherwise, I am just looking forward. And, I am starting anew, which is always, always a good thing. I'm gonna take this as an opportunity to create the new and improved TRH. (An ex of mine used to tell me that my motto should be new-and-improved because I could always see how to make something better with very little effort even.) 


On the bus ride to work yesterday I was in love, again. I want to tell you all about it (real soon).