The Grace of Change

No More Secondhand Life

OK, I admit it: I'm a recovering self-help junkie.

My drug of choice was books that told me how to become happier, healthier, thinner, sexier (though I never actually did the programs). I felt comforted to know that if I just worked hard enough, I could make myself over into a loveable, wonderful me.

That changed at around 50. I just got plumb tuckered out from trying so hard to make my inside (and my outside) match up to the expert of the moment's Prescription for a Happy Life. What started engaging me a whole lot more than being the ultimate with-it woman was learning how to nurture and celebrate me. Kinky, marvelously imperfect me.

I remembered the story told by Rabbi Zusya many hundreds of years ago to his students. He said something like, "You know, in the world to come, God's not gonna ask me 'Why were you not Moses?' or 'Why were you not Abraham?' No way. What God's gonna ask me is 'Why were you not Zusya?'"

What a question! What if we ask our sweet selves the same question, not in the hereafter, but now?

OK, I admit it: I'm a recovering self-help junkie.

My drug of choice was books that told me how to become happier, healthier, thinner, sexier (though I never actually did the programs). I felt comforted to know that if I just worked hard enough, I could make myself over into a loveable, wonderful me.

That changed at around 50. I just got plumb tuckered out from trying so hard to make my inside (and my outside) match up to the expert of the moment's Prescription for a Happy Life. What started engaging me a whole lot more than being the ultimate with-it woman was learning how to nurture and celebrate me. Kinky, marvelously imperfect me.

I remembered the story told by Rabbi Zusya many hundreds of years ago to his students. He said something like, "You know, in the world to come, God's not gonna ask me 'Why were you not Moses?' or 'Why were you not Abraham?' No way. What God's gonna ask me is 'Why were you not Zusya?'"

What a question! What if we ask our sweet selves the same question, not in the hereafter, but now?

The Shelter of Each Other

So there David (not only The Wonderful Husband but The Master Chef), Bernardo (our New Orleanian harpsichordist houseguest) and I were, cooking and cleaning for the Dinner Group to arrive at 6. Arrive they did, and since Bernardo was a guest, folks reminisced a little about the history of the group.

They've been meeting about once a month for 20 years. We've (I joined when I started dating The Wonderful Husband) help marry each other, bury parents, clear fallen trees, change jobs: in sickness and in health, for better and for worse. And celebrate it all with ambrosial food and aged wine.

Notice

Well, I've never ripped a crotch in my pants, but last week a good friend died unexpectedly. Ouch. I'll miss you, Emma.

Here I am in the middle of a lot of transitions, and how easy it is for me to forget to stay awake and marvel at what I DO have (which doesn't mean I can't grieve what I don't). Kowit's poem, "Notice," reminds me of this.

Notice

This evening, the sturdy Levi's
I wore every day for over a year
& which seemed to the end
in perfect condition,
suddenly tore.
How or why I don't know,
but there it was: a big rip at the crotch.
A month ago my friend Nick
walked off a racquetball court,
showered,
got into his street clothes,
& halfway home collapsed & died.
Take heed, you who read this,
& drop to your knees now & again
like the poet Christopher Smart,
& kiss the earth & be joyful,
& make much of your time,
& be kindly to everyone,
even to those who do not deserve it.
For although you may not believe
it will happen,
you too will one day be gone,
I, whose Levi's ripped at the crotch
for no reason,
assure you that such is the case.
Pass it on.

 

~ Steve Kowit ~

  

(The Dumbbell Nebula)