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I set out on the walking path as usual this morning. At the end of the path there is a large commercial property. Most days I pick up a few extra miles by circling the lot twice before reversing for home. Lately, I have encountered a maintenance worker there on my first pass around the lot. The maintenance worker is an older gentleman. His build is so slight that his baseball cap alone seems to overwhelm his small frame. He pushes a cart full of brooms and shovels, sprays and rags while pulling a vacuum cleaner behind him. This busy man is not much taller than the cart he maneuvers around this giant property. Most days I greet him with a smile and a simple hello. Some days I compliment him on the way he keeps the property looking so lovely. This morning as I came around a bend in the sidewalk I saw the maintenance worker taking a break at a picnic table inside a small pavilion. He turned to me and said, “There’s my little lady.” I laughed and said, “I think God intended for us to meet. I’m Lilli.” Smiling broadly, he extended his hand to me, “Jesse.” The encounter was pleasant and brief, but as I walked on I could not ignore the strength that came from his hand. Had we stood side-by-side, no one would have doubted that I was the sturdier one of this pair, and yet the strength there in his hand… And that feeling of strength remained upon my palm and at the base of my thumb for much of the day. Ironically, the right hand I offered to Jesse is a hand weakened from radiation following breast cancer treatment. It started with a fibrosis in my shoulder and the nerve pain inched its way down my arm into my hand. I first noticed the pain and the weakness as I struggled to lift a small pot of boiling water from the stove. But here, after this brief encounter, I felt a renewed if not unusual strength in my right hand. I know that it has become cliché to say that people and things are not always what they seem or that looks can be deceiving, but the strength in Jesse’s hand was a needed reminder for me. We make big judgments about people based on a glance, but most people have unseen strengths earned through hardship, work, and even the ordinary demands of daily living. I study my weakened hand and feel Jesse’s strength upon it, a strength that was given freely and generously in response to nothing more than a smile and a kind word or two, and I wonder: can it really be that easy? Share your strength with someone today.
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I am beginning to suspect that good hygiene has been my downfall, my kryptonite, the real reason I did not live an accomplished life outside my own four walls. It took retirement to shine the spotlight on what should have been obvious much earlier: I am a powerhouse in my pajamas but once I stop to take a shower and get dressed, I’m like Samson with a fresh haircut--my superpowers fall into the waste bin, gone in a snip. I can leap tall buildings (or at least a high mattress) with a single bound when I awaken in the morning. I fire up the computer and turn on the day. I make my bed. I straighten up my entire apartment and put away the dishes. I water the plants. I check the refrigerator for aged leftovers and wrap up the remains for the trash. I wipe down the bathroom sink and empty the trash can. I replace the toilet paper roll and put out a clean hand towel. I clean out my purse and check my change for valuable coins. I do my squats, lunges, pushups, wall squats, planks, and sit-to-stand exercises. I say my prayers. I pay my online bills and write cards to far away friends. I sort the laundry with actual care, checking the pockets for rogue Kleenex and gum wrappers carried home from use during my morning walks. I contemplate what else I can do with the day. And then it’s 8:30 AM, and I eat breakfast. I am completely comfortable and relaxed in my PJs. No tight waistband. No irritating fabric. No shoes Nothing to tug at me or to irritate my flesh or my nerves. No looking in the mirror to put the focus on how I look instead of what I can do. I am so happy in my pajamas that I am sure that if I actually encountered someone that I would be the kindest version of myself which gets me to thinking of soldiers sleeping all night in trenches waking in their combat fatigues ready for battle. Could my PJs be my compassion fatigues? Am I too old to save the world? I think back to my childhood when my younger sister was a preschooler. My mother would say “brush your hair” to which my sister would reply “Why? I’m not going anywhere.” Preschoolers have this down. No wonder they kick and scream when forced to dress. We lose something with age, but I am getting it back! The beauty of retirement is that I can spend all day in my PJs. I can answer the door at three o’clock in the afternoon dressed in my pajamas, sporting bedhead and morning breath and people will just shrug and say, “Old people.” With the general state of our couture, maybe we can get away with wearing our compassion fatigues in public. Comfortable old people changing the world! There is one minor but important exception: if you sleep in the nude, you might what to call that outfit your passion fatigues and do your work from home. Earlier this week I stepped out of my door onto the walking path. The sky was clear and brilliant blue in every direction save for a faint smudge that was the sleeping moon, God’s thumbprint on a new day. As I walked, somewhere in Utah the police stepped into a crime scene searching for evidence, a fingerprint perhaps. A young man, a boy really, had turned assassin. Where could he be? Why did he do it? Somewhere else, a grief stricken family stepped out onto the tarmac to receive the body of their son, husband, and father. He had left his handprint on their hearts. They will be devastated for a long time to come. Little was known about the shooter that morning. The victim was well known. Many people disagreed strongly with the victim’s rhetoric. Right or wrong in his point of view, killing him was wrong, and it did not make him a saint, but it did make him a martyr, silencing the opposition, elevating his words and beliefs, giving them even more attention and power. People who had never heard of him will now remember him forever. No one will remember the shooter’s name. He will be just another lost boy with a gun. I walked on thinking of all of them, all of us. We are all part of the same family. Every mother and father can imagine the grief of both sets of parents, both families. A mother myself, I ponder the question, “what is happening to our sons?” Why are they especially vulnerable to the hate proliferating in our society through our politics, social media, and video games? Why, increasingly, do polls show young men believe in violence as a solution to life’s problems? As an aging adult, I am exhausted by the hate and cruelty of some of our politicians and by the unchecked social media that generates continuous, unrelenting outrage to sell advertising. Perhaps a young person still gaining control of his impulses and the powers of his mind is unable to manage it, to shove it down, to find another outlet. In the growing isolation in which we live, the anger, outrage, and hatred grow unchecked inside him. Maybe the pain of being invisible just makes him want to be seen, to be remembered… I walked along that morning contemplating what has happened to our humanity. Fifty years ago a self-esteem movement began to gain momentum. Perhaps thinking of oneself has gone too far. We now live in an age of narcissism. Long past loving our neighbors as ourselves, we elected a man for president who once boasted that he could shoot a man on Fifth Avenue in New York and get away with it, a man convicted of sexual assault and fraud, a man who has upended the entire world with his cruelty. Is this the new role model for young men? Alone on the path, I thought of the parable of the Good Samaritan, a story in which robbers strip, beat, and leave a Jewish man for dead alongside a road. A Jewish priest and a Levite cross the street to avoid the victim, to pass him by, but another traveler, a Samaritan is “moved with compassion” and stops to help even though Jews and Samaritans were known to be antagonistic toward one another. Perhaps the Jewish priest and the Levite who passed by the suffering victim thought only about themselves, their fears, their reputations: “What’s in it for me? What are the risks to me if I stop? What will people in my social circle think of me?” But the Samaritan was capable of thinking first about the victim: “What will happen to him if I don’t stop?” Perhaps, implicit in that thought was the Samaritan’s belief that his own soul would be irreparably damaged if he failed to attend to his neighbor’s needs. The Samaritan boldly left his fingerprints at the scene of the crime because he did not need to hide. I returned home exhausted by the awareness that the hateful rhetoric would likely escalate in the days ahead, that any attempt at conversation would be deemed evidence of being “far right” or “radical left.” As I stepped inside my home, I glanced back at the thumbprint on the sky and silently promised the One who had left it there that I will stop for a stranger in need regardless of his politics. Compassion is the high road and the only road out of this mess. Days before she died, my cousin Marcia and I sat around her sister’s dining room table. The meal long finished, we chatted into the evening about old times. Perhaps it is the way karma works, but somehow the conversation came around to what people might say about each of us after we died. We both smiled at the thought that her brother born with cerebral palsy and a speech impediment would be the one who would draw the biggest crowd to his funeral, the one about whom there would be so much to say, a testimony to George’s beautiful nature and the unwavering devotion of his parents and siblings. I spoke with Marcia again the morning of her scheduled medical procedure, a procedure intended to clear a blocked artery. She felt a little “off” she told me, blaming the new medicine the doctor had prescribed prior to the surgery, but I had already heard it in her voice, and I felt it too. Something was off and it hovered. Marcia spent most of the day in surgery after a major blood vessel exploded during the procedure. She was delivered to intensive care in an unconscious state. She never spoke to us again. She died in the night after hospital visitation rules had sent us all home. Turns out Marcia drew a big crowd to her funeral. There was much to be said about her life, her significant accomplishments, and her beautiful nature. Yesterday in the mail I received a copy of the 2009 literary journal, Alimentum, containing Marcia’s first nonfiction essay, The Proof is in the Pudding, in which she described cooking and baking to keep busy after the death of her beloved father. She noted that she did not share the faith of those who offered condolences. She searched for God and proof of everlasting life in the mixture that would become dough for pies. She wrote: “Transfiguration. It is a miracle. I have witnessed a miracle. And what other comfort people derive from faith, I pour into my pie shell and begin to believe again that in the end we are transformed and we go on. I hold the proof here in my floured hands.” They come back to us these people we have loved. Today, I hold the proof in my hands: Alimentum, Issue Eight, Summer, 2009, pages seven through nine. After Dr. Seuss, Dr. Rick is my favorite doctor. Dr. Rick looks like a high school math teacher and employs the same firm approach to his difficult subject. He holds seminars and takes his students on field trips to practice applying their knowledge. Sure, Dr. Rick is a Progressive, but I think anyone over the age of 40 can agree with his mission: keeping young homeowners from turning into their parents. I have seen myself and my friends in his students: trying to find the silent button on a smart phone, or coming to the seminar with printed driving directions, or wondering, “Was I hash-tagging?” I and my friends are guilty of the Live, Love, Laugh signs, yard gnomes, and too many pillows. And how many of the same t-shirts do I own? I know about coat wrangling, wishing for paper tickets at the airport, worrying about how I will get out of the parking lot before I get inside the arena, and how to pronounce q-u-i-n-o-a? I love this visual proof that I am not alone, that our shared humanity includes naiveté at every stage of life. Even as older adults, we have our moments in which we are like innocent preschoolers playing dress-up, trying on dad’s shoes or mom’s apron. The commercials remind us that sometimes adults must feign being “big” too as in Dr. Rick’s case examples, trying to be knowledgeable and experienced homeowners. When we were young, it seemed that our parents were all-knowing and without doubts. I grew up assuming there was some type of “grown-up” switch that when activated, a child became an all-knowing, capable adult. I never thought for a moment that my parents might not know what they were doing! I didn’t realize that they had to negotiate their learning curves too. And that they may have lived with regrets for purchases and decisions made. When we think of growing older, we picture the graying hair, sagging skin, a little arthritis maybe. We never imagine the subtle ways in which we age, the ways in which life can leave us behind: adapting to new technology, our outdated home décor and wardrobes, the things we talk about and who we talk to, and our general loss of confidence in how things work. These Progressive Insurance commercials were introduced in April 2020 during the pandemic, a time of global strain when we had our doubts that anyone anywhere knew what they were doing. Perhaps we are there again. Never has there been a time in my lifespan when we’ve needed to laugh at ourselves more and to recognize our shared humanity and our foibles. That would be progress! I guess there are things left to learn at any age. Thanks, Dr. Rick, for not giving up on us! And please, someone let me know when Netflix turns these commercials into a series. I’ve lost my TV Guide. Each morning I thank God for the shared-use bike path outside my door. It keeps me sane and literally on the straight and narrow path during these difficult times. Despite its location along a four-lane, high-access highway, it is not deprived of nature. The city has planted a line of trees that form a barrier between the highway and some of the commercial buildings. Many of the businesses maintain small gardens and pots of flowers at their doors. Every establishment is surrounded by well-manicured lawns from which the dandelions cheer me on as they rise up in the lawn mower’s wake. The rabbits, squirrels, groundhogs, and birds long ago found peace in being city-dwellers living along this well-traveled path. My favorites among nature’s local inhabitants are the long lines of sassy geese that bring rush hour traffic to a screeching halt. I laugh out loud as they take their goosy time high-stepping across all four lanes. Yesterday, as I circled the large empty parking lot at the end of the path, empty save for me and a lawn care worker with a noisy leaf blower that is, a hawk swooped down and startled both of us. As the hawk drifted in for a landing, it spread its wings wide showing off its soft feathers of white and tan—a beautiful chalk portrait against a pale blue sky. The large bird came to rest on a rail of the railroad tracks within feet of me and the noisy leaf blower. The hawk looked regal as it perched there. Its appearance was so surprising and beautiful that the lawn care worker turned off his leaf blower, and we both stood there looking at the hawk who was sizing us up. The hawk didn’t seem to be in any hurry as he kept us pinned to the spot with its eyes. Traffic zoomed by behind us and yet, there we stood the three of us. It was the lawn care worker who finally broke the gaze. He didn’t seem able to get back to work with the hawk staring at him, and so he shooed the hawk away and fired up the leaf blower. I marched forward returning to the worn bike path, but the hawk remained with me as my mind’s fresh companion. I wanted to hold on to its beauty, the softness of its feathers, the wonder of its flight, the hope that it stirred in me even as I wondered: what did the hawk see when it looked at me? At the leaf-blowing lawn care worker? What does nature make of man? Did the hawk see beauty too? Was it curious about our lives and where we came from, what we were up to? Where we were going? Did it admire me moving on two feet as much as I admired it moving on wings? Like people, some creatures in nature are timid. They scatter and crawl back into their holes at the sight, sound, or smell of strangers or unexpected sounds. Some prepare to attack. But others, like the regal hawk and the sassy geese, will not be shaken or deterred. They claim their spaces even in the face of leaf blowing machines. They own the road even in the face of speeding two ton vehicles. They do what they do as nature prescribed, strong in their conviction that the rights of nature are ensured. Perhaps that is what there is to admire in God’s creatures, in addition to their beauty. They do not live constricted by worry or self-doubt. They have faith in their instincts. They don’t curse when the shelves are empty. They move on with a simple faith in provision. They don’t calculate every move, anticipate every potential problem; they simply live. A few miles later, I returned home with the hawk’s sudden appearance still on my mind. Alone, I engaged AI with my questions. AI told me that hawks are associated with vision, power, and freedom. They have exceptional eyesight that represents clarity, perspective, and an ability to see the bigger picture. They embody strength and dominance in the animal kingdom symbolizing courage and assertiveness, and freedom to pursue goals without constraints. In many cultures hawks are seen as messengers of spiritual awakening encouraging individuals to trust their instincts and intuition. In different cultures the hawk is a symbol of protection, guidance, power, and freedom. I had no reason to doubt AI. It merely confirmed what I had already felt as the hawk swooped down and settled on the railroad tracks to hold me in its gaze. Perhaps it was no coincidence. The wonder of nature may be that the hawk, with its heavenly instincts, came looking for me. Am I in hell? Please send me the zip code so I can see if it matches mine. What can explain these torrid conditions? Looking around at the general state of “us,” I am pretty sure it’s not our smokin’ hot bodies delivering all this heat. Could be climate change or maybe the state of politics—all of that fiery outrage, or maybe burning nuclear facilities… Whatever the cause, I woke up AGAIN this morning in a sweat after a restless night from the sound of the window air conditioner turning on and off, on and off…and still falling short of comfort. Then I dragged my limp body outside to go to work. Immediately, my eyeballs began to sizzle in their sockets. I made it to my car parked in the open lot. The heat from the black asphalt penetrated the soles of my shoes. Hoping to lift my feet off the scorching pavement, I opened the car door and stood back. The temperature inside the all-black interior had surely reached the melting point. I pulled out my emergency blanket to sit on to keep from searing my flesh as I dug around inside the various compartments and came up with a couple of old cloth COVID masks to wrap around the blistering hot steering wheel just in case I ever wanted to use my hands again. Once on my way, I noticed the streets were mostly quiet…too hot even for cars. Unless it was delirium from heat exhaustion, I am pretty sure I passed the devil sprawled on a city bench selling ribs he had grilled on the scorching hot pavement. He seemed pretty pleased with himself. And he looked all too familiar. I would have turned on the radio for some pleasant distraction, but I was afraid I might drop one of the cloth masks that were making steering possible. For some reason, it seemed that keeping my jaw tense and my brow furrowed was the only force making forward progress possible. I arrived at work and pulled into my usual spot just as the AC kicked in. Inside the office, the air conditioner ran overtime, and I had to put on a sweater. The extremes in temperatures seemed to overwhelm my body’s metabolism and I was near pass-out starving by 11:00 AM. I had to stop and eat my lunch. I feared this was a misstep. By eating too early, I might not have the strength to get all the way home. Coping with this relentless heat was wearing down my resistance, and I feared I might be forced to bargain with the devil for some of his terrible street food. Somehow I made it through the busy work day. It was time to start the exhausting process all over again. I stepped out onto the pavement. The air was a wall of heat. The temperature had risen at least 20 degrees in the hours since I vacated my car. I opened the car door bracing myself for the second wave of heat that would punch me in the face. I sat for a bit with the door open hoping that somehow the outside air would push out the hotter inside air, but it was useless. I could feel that my mood and my judgment were as impaired as if I had been at the bar doing shots all day instead of working at a computer. I muttered to myself, “Jesus, take the wheel,” as I put the car in reverse. I made it home without being pulled over for impaired driving or having to stop to bargain with the devil for bad food. As I entered my parking lot, sunlight flickered through a cluster of trees illuminating a heavily shaded and empty parking spot. I slid between the white lines and sat for a few moments in the soft light of the trees’ canopy. The air conditioner began to blow cold air. My jaw and my brow relaxed. Hope returned along with my senses. I laughed out loud at the image of the haughty devil on the sidewalk. He may be pleased with himself for generating this hellish, unrelenting heat, but with the rustle of leaves, it was the sweet shade that got the last word: God is still here. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
November 2025
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