When I was traveling through the Philippines in the 1980’s to research the renowned psychic healers, one of them,
Angelo, invited my friend and me to his home for dinner. We accepted the invitation. A cousin was on the street waiting for us when our taxi pulled up in front of a ramshackle building. He greeted us with a huge smile and he led us up a creaky staircase that opened out into one room. The space served as a living room, a kitchen and a bedroom for seven. The bathroom was in the house,
that was considered a luxury, and there was no toilet seat.
We sat on two wooden chairs and Angelo’s wife, Maria, brought us a tray with two large bottles of Coca Cola on it. She poured the cold liquid into two glasses and stood there smiling while we drank.
We motioned for the family to join us but Maria shook her head. While she and her three daughters cooked, we chatted with our Angelo. When dinner was ready, Angelo asked us to stand up and he carried our chairs to the table. We sat again and Maria brought over a platter of white rice and mystery meat. When she was
through serving us, the family stood back. Pretty soon, I realized what was happening. There wasn’t enough food for us and for them. They would eat the leftovers. I thought about leaving half of my plate untouched so they had something to eat, but when I looked over at their faces, I could see that would be insulting. They had next to nothing and they wanted to give us something. Food. They wanted us to eat. For them, it was more important for us to receive their gift than for them to have dinner.
It was difficult to eat in front of them but we emptied our plates. We had no idea what we were eating but we complimented them on the food. They couldn’t have looked more thrilled, and we spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing. They were joyful, more so than my friends and I are much of the time. When I got back to my hotel and climbed into bed, I kept hearing their laughter and seeing their smiles. Sometimes I forget how privileged I am. I forget to marvel at the beauty and comforts in my life. I hold that night in my heart as a constant reminder about what really matters.
Little irritating things can throw me off course and I become resentful. I spent most of yesterday morning on the
phone, not talking to anyone. I was on hold with an insurance company, trying to cancel a claim that I didn’t file. They transferred me to three different people and none of them had any answers. I tried to be pleasant, I thought I might get better service but that didn’t seem to matter. The last time they put me on hold, forty-five minutes went by. I don’t want to even think about the so-called
music that was droning on and on. Finally, I hung up. I was in a bad mood as I grabbed my purse and my car keys. I had a dental appointment in Santa Monica which I wasn’t too thrilled about.
The freeway between Studio City and Santa Monica is notoriously a never-ending traffic jam. Rush hour is every hour. I inched along. When I got to the off ramp, I hoped the streets would be better but they weren’t. I slowly made a right turn onto Lincoln Boulevard. Horns were honking, my breathing became shallow, I was silently swearing and feeling sorry for myself that I had to go to the dentist when I saw a man on the sidewalk beside me. He was hunched over, his clothing was tattered and he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
I was paralyzed for a moment. No shoes. I looked down at my feet. I was wearing shoes. I had a car, a telephone,health insurance, a dentist, a full refrigerator, a bed and a car. I had friends and money and a roof over my head. And I had shoes. Something about that
really got me.
I thought about my closet. Shoes galore. Choices. Summer sandals, winter boots, dressy pumps, daytime flats, tennis shoes and bedroom slippers. I never considered what life would be like without
shoes until that moment. I forgot about the traffic. I was safe in my car. I forgot about being late. I’d get there when I got there. I wasn’t hungry, I wasn’t cold, I wasn’t afraid and I‘d taken a shower before I got into the car.
Before I knew it, I was driving into my dentist’s parking garage. I took a ticket at the entrance and I knew I could pay the fee when I left. I got into the elevator and I was glad I had a dentist. The late Vietnamese monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, said that when he was stuck
in traffic or if he had to stop at a red light, he saw those things as
opportunities to breathe, to remember where he was and what he was doing. I tried it. I can’t say I was successful but it was a lot better than swearing and muttering under my breath.
I watched a documentary about actor Seth Rogan’s therapist, Phil Stutz. A renowned healer, this amazing man has Parkinson’s Disease. He has trouble walking and he talked about being grateful
for an elevator in his office building. Such a small thing. I can’t remember ever being thankful for an elevator. I forget to remember. I forget about how fortunate I am to have what I have. And to notice what’s in front of me. I may have passed something in my house a dozen times but it didn’t register any more, like a piece of furniture that I was so excited about when I bought it. Now I didn’t see it any more. A painting on the wall. A piece of jewelry that I wore only once. Jasmine plants in my front garden.
When we’re mindful of where we are and what we’re doing, we don’t have to try to remember to be appreciative. We don’t have to remind ourselves to be grateful. In my opinion, the idea of gratitude gets thrown around too much. Journals. Affirmations. To do lists. I’ve found that if I focus on where I am, what I have and whom I love, gratefulness simply
shows up in the space and I can use it to wake up
Recent Comments