As deeply moved and heartened as I am by the rallying together for and against everything I believe in right now there’s a gnawing voice in my gut that keeps telling me this is not enough. We’re preaching to the choir. Our like-mindedness is the very thing that caused this political cancer to grow in the first place. We turned a blind eye and deaf ear to those who believe that Trump was and is the answer to “make America great…” These are the people we need to be talking to. Not yelling at or calling names…but seriously speaking to in real efforts to make positive changes.
To listen to each other. To reach out.
Jimmy Fallon had a great bit on his show called Common Ground in which both Republicans and Democrats on the street were asked what they both liked and didn’t like and in that brief moment they found that they did have something in common, they shook hands, laughed and even hugged. It was just a little moment but I found it touching and true.
The colors of oceany blues—teals and lapis and cobalt—played with our senses to the point of veritable hypnosis. The fresh sea scents and gentle sounds of waves wherever you inhaled and slumped into a boneless heap of “what-the-hell” and simply gave into the luxury of decadence and beauty—all of it was truly a gift from the gods. And of course, Pete’s company.
But as we slogged through the rainy streets towards our gleaming, sparkling theatrical goal, noting all the duded up patrons ahead of us and the warm, shining lights glowing within I couldn’t help but notice the other “patrons.” Those wandering nomads of the streets; most of them hidden under soggy tarps and trash bags, hunkered beneath awnings and tucked into doorways, pushing piles of refuse packed into rusty shopping carts. The homeless. So many of them. I could hear some of their whispers to each other as we passed by. My heart ached. Oh the line. The line is so fine between them and me.
I called him Scout because when he arrived in my life seventeen years ago, I thought he was a she and of course named the tiny drop of a kitten after one of my favorite Harper Lee characters from To Kill A Mockingbird.
That should set the stage for a recent drive I did with one of the best and most patient navigators ever. Did I say that he was sight-challenged, as in almost blind? True. I was directed through the San Diego traffic by my friend, an unseeing eye guide named Claude. A former biologist and “birder,” this amazing genius has socked away an inventory of facts—flora and fauna and a whole lot more—into his brilliant brain. And one recent morning he offered to share his wisdom and memorized street sense with my friend Willie and me.
I must have slipped into the rare realm (for me) of self-importance lately. Because the Universe has been having fun pummeling my ego out into the stratosphere. I’m being forced to face the grace of acceptance. Being in the present moment at all times. Being ever more grateful. And being able to stand back and laugh. Because, seriously, life—my life—is ridiculous. Especially in these Mercury in Retrograde moments when communication, transportation, exasperation are so insane that all is one big “askew you.”