And On The Same Day

AND ON THE SAME DAY!

They sat on the bench at the bus stop under a cloudless azure sky, each staring straight ahead at the small, neat little building across the road which looked like a Methodist church that had been converted to some other purpose, possibly a private home. The bulletin board in the front announcing the topic of the next sermon was blank, and looked as if it had been that way for a long time, surrounded as it was with Queen Anne’s lace and tall grass. Apart from the church-house, there was nothing to distinguish this particular stretch of country road. No ambient sounds. As if a stern librarian had put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Quiet!”

“I hope it comes soon. I get kind of antsy just waiting,” she said, stealing a quick glance at her fellow traveler and looking back across the street.

He glanced at her. She was a familiar looking blonde with beautiful waves of cascading hair nearly overpowering her delicate, petite frame. He tried to peg her. “I’ve seen you before, but I just can’t seem to figure out. . . .” he trailed off.

Now she searched her memory. A shy, childlike quality came through his voice, with just the slightest rasp. Warm. Endearing.

“I, I used to be an actress.” She hesitated. “Maybe you’ve seen me?”
“Oh! So you’re . . .”
“And you’re . . .”
Now they frankly stared at each other. The recognition pulled them up short.
“So we’re. . .” he fumbled for the right words. “So we’re home, now”.
“I was sick, so sick. So tired. The paramedics came”.
“Yes. My doctor was there. And then – I was looking down. Seeing myself. Too tired to come back”.
“Exactly”. Her voice trembled. She shuddered.
“It’s a hospital”, she whispered. “It’s going to be okay, now. I feel it”.
“Wanna know a secret? I hated it! Hated all of it. Didn’t know how to stop. Couldn’t stop. Didn’t know what I would do if I stopped.” He willed her to look into his eyes.

She looked. Beyond the ashen skin, the painfully thin nose, the drawn look of his entire being. She looked into his dark eyes. Now there was a recognition that transcended the image she had seen again and again in the tabloids, in the videos, on the news. Something sweetly conspiratorial passed between them.

“And on the same day!” She laughed in spite of herself, and he understood.
“They must be having a field day down there!”
Now they both laughed, deep belly laughs until, uncontrollably, tears sprang to their eyes. They hugged carefully. Hesitant..

Now, a solitary man dressed in white scrubs and immaculate white sneakers emerged from the church house across the street. As he approached the bus stop, he smiled, as if sharing their private joke.

He stopped in front of them, holding out his hands and helped them to their feet.

“The Doctor will see you now”.

Searching For a Miracle

A few days ago, our neighbor generously shared a magazine with us which I have never seen before. I don’t remember the name, but you know — it’s one of those magazines about spirituality, unity and healing with lots of ads for Whole Foods and organic cotton yoga wear — well, you get the picture.

So here I am, the ideal target demographic: mid-fifties, college-educated, devoutly liberal or progressive – I forget which term is in right now — vegetarian, “airie-fairie” kind of a gal. I remember the 60s with a little bit of nostalgia and a little bit of a shudder. You could guess how I have voted since 1968, and you would be right (I would be left!).

So. I’m leafing through this magazine rather mindlessly, and I stumble across the gleaming countenance of a beautiful woman looking to be, perhaps, Indian, and perhaps of a certain age. She is radiant, dressed in a sari. Below her picture is her “bio”, which describes her as a “Divine Spiritual Luminary”and a “Great Mystic”. I have the same feeling I have whenever I see a picture of the Pope, Queen Elizabeth, or for that matter, Mick Jagger. I mean, I know these people are extraordinary. I know they each possess a unique insight informed by a unique vantage point on the world. And each of them holds a mystique, an aura of power that transcends the mundane. They are icons, and as such, they command a certain respect.

But at some point, I’m sorry to say, a little voice in my head says, “Is it real, or is it just pretend?”. And if it *is* pretend, is that such a bad thing? Or, is it as real as I allow it to be? Or should I be offended by pretense that basically, sells us snake oil? Or. What if it’s not snake oil? Is the believing itself the real magic?

You see, I am very, very confused. Part of me wants so badly to believe it all. I want to just swallow the Divine Light whole and let it illuminate my very being, curing me of everything from cancer to cataracts, from indigestion to indiscretion, from ignorance to inertia. (Okay, I’ll stop now). I think there is a secret, and that once I *divine* this secret, all will be well.

But then I say to myself: There is no secret. There is only the truth that is staring me in the face. There is only this moment where I am sitting in front of my computer, confessing my self-doubt before an imaginary audience (which, by the way, seems to be my calling in life, whether I am writing a song, composing a letter, or sobbing in front of a therapist. All one and the same. Me, confessing). There is only here an now. And isn’t that miracle enough?

Namaste.