Weary is gateway to Wonder

Bronx,  NY

It started out with me oversleeping. I got to the college where I tutor and was the first one there. Phew. Then slowly the students started coming in. This is our last weekend before winter break. So many papers to proof; students to help, that soon I was overwhelmed and left for the solace of the bathroom stall. Then, back to more harried faces asking me to work a miracle. Why didn't you come sooner, or more so throughout the semester, my mind scolded. But I tried not to judge. Two with dyslexia, one a non-stop chatterer, and three circling me, I wanted to get out of there as much as they did. And finally I was, but not before one last frustrating hour.

On the "prison bus" as I call the Hutchinson bus that takes us from Mercy College to Weschester Square, I saw the large group of parents and children. It was the ACS Holiday party. This bus was small, how would they all get on? I wondered. How much more? I stood in the back with about eight of the children, who sat on the floor, around me. I found myself talking to them, their faces painted as butterflies Big Bird, and tigers. I commented on all the shopping bags, seeing many stuffed animals filling the bottoms. "At least we got something," said an older child, about 10, the one painted as Big Bird and I wanted to give her everything this world could muster. Her mother stood my me on the bus. I felt her smoldering sadness.

Getting on the 6 train at Westchester Square, I felt weary, and while holding a hot tea, I sat down and closed my eyes, listening for 125th, my transfer. When it came I bolted for the 4, getting on, and gaining a coveted seat. I closed my eyes again.

Westchester Square/Tremont Avenue

But something caused me to open them a few stops later. I saw a woman as tall as a sycamore, dressed in brown and holding a brown cane standing across from where I sat, by the door. I waited to catch her attention and to indicate she could have my seat. As soon as she saw me, she spoke in Spanish, telling me she was fine, but thanking me. I thought this odd since she had a cane! A good commuter gives up their seat to anyone with a cane, or who is pregnant, elderly, or with children.

I closed my eyes again only to feel her come and sit beside me soon after the stop at 86th Street. Even now as I am telling you - I am still in sublime shock - over all of this. She sat down and her elbow brushed my arm and you know how sometimes when you are tense, a slight touch can activate a healing point of relief? I was thankful for that, but that was just the beginning.

She began to talk, looking straight ahead as if remembering something from the day, and in fact she was. She said she had witnessed what I determined to be domestic violence while "out in the field," so she must be a social worker or home attendant. I found myself not shying away from a stranger's talk. Nor did I feel like she was a runaway conversationalist, just talking to hear her voice.

But she kept saying, "sometimes you have to report it," and each time, I agreed with her. I thought we must look so funny together, this light, brown-skinned woman wearing braids caught at the ends with red rubberbands, next to a weary white girl with a braid trailing down her back and loose pieces of hair around her face..

She talked of how everyone can be helped to function normally, even those who they say are "special". She told me of a three year old Jewish boy whose parents told her would not eat. She took an orange and peeled it, letting the rinds fall to the ground, she told me. She said the little boy picked it up and put it to her tongue. She accepted it, and it was the start of him beginning to receive his own food. "Today he is in college," she tells me, smiling. "And now I have hundreds of people asking for my help." And I believe her.

She read my mind and asked me how old did I think she was?  I looked and blushed. "You can go high or low," she said. I played it safe and said 65. She put her head down as if to laugh, looking up, her eyes vibrant, saying, "I will be 95 on the 25th!"

Shut up!" I said.

"Yes, I am," she answered. "And I am on my fifth pension!"

I reached for my bag, scurrying for my notebook, "Please, you have to let me talk to you," I said, suddenly out of breath. "You see," I stammered, "I have this memoir program, well, I have another program, but it hasn't really taken off, yet, but you will be the first, and well, it's called Elder Campfire, and it is about what we want to say to the future children in our families about what we have learned while here," I said, stammering on and writing my information on the paper. As wild as I felt, nothing felt forced. This felt right. Natural. Normal.

"I want you to," she replied and then she shifted. "I, I mean, yes, you will talk to me, and yes this night it all changes," she said, looking upward, "and this is when it will begin, but I want you to know that God wants you to go home and to take out another piece of paper and to write down, to sit down and to write what you want and what you need, what you really want to happen in your life."

I stared at her, feeling her words in my solar plexus.

"I will do it," I said to her.

"You know, I let two trains pass, and when this one came my friend went to that car and I came to this one," she said. "I knew I was supposed to meet someone and here you are. And I want you to know that angels do not always bring the message. Sometimes it is from people, people like me. And when you see the light," she said, pointing upwards, "don't be afraid. When it comes you will never be the same again."

And I said thank you to this messenger. Humbled, stunned, shook, I rose to leave the train. I didn't want to go. "Please tell me we will speak again," I pleaded. "I will contact you," she said, smiling wide, and as I stepped onto the platform, I hurried hoping to catch her stare in the window and to wave, and to connect again. But her head was down. She was putting my paper into her purse. And her expression was calm, unpretentious, serene, matter of fact, at peace.

I trembled from the grandeur all the way home. I am still moved. Whimpering into my scarf, I walked home, mouth open, no words coming out, no tears, just an all-encompassing feeling of relief and grace.





Dedicated to Tito Ortegon, the most handsome man I never had, but Ida let him carry me home one stone cold drunk night. Te amo to Ida, Tito, and the darling babies that followed.

Help is Dreaming Inside You

Dreaming is mega important.

As Aristotle said, "Hope is a waking dream." Dreams are the gateway to solutions, answers, help, and support. If you are ever struggling with a problem or issue, ask for assistance before you go to sleep and then keep a Dream Journal by your bedside.

Last night I had a dream, or really early this morning. I awoke, grabbing at the air, and sat up, putting my elbows onto the table next to the bed. A lot to process. I had gone from one stressful, angry dream to kicking obnoxious people out of my "house" (getting rid of bad habits), and feeling sick about it to being back in my old bedroom back in El Paso, Texas on Album Avenue where my parents lived for four decades. Both of my folks, as you know, have transitioned, but in this dream, my mother was on my bed and my father on the opposite side of the room, more the middle, next to my sister's bed, and lounging on the floor.

Eighteen and home for Christmas on Album Avenue.

My darling parents on Easter Sunday 1988.

My mother was drinking a cappuccino and even in the dream I marveled. So uncharacteristic of who she was when I knew her. This told me that she was letting her freak flag fly. As ordinary as a coffee drink may seem, but my mother was hesitant about enjoying much of anything even though at the end I discovered she loved food as much as I do. She drank it all with a gusto, her hair teased as she wore it in the 60s and 70s. Her head rested on a large shoebox with paperwork inside, so like my mother to use for her filing or storage. "Do you want a pillow?" I asked her, something I would have done since she had a disabling life for 30 years. She looked at me as if to say why??

I was flabbergasted!

Then I turned to my father who sat staring at me smiling and from his left eye (earlier in relaying this story to my daughters I said right, but now I realize it was the left) came a twinkle and the most radiant stream of love, magically I took it all in, feeling the awesomeness that everything is alright and always will be.

I began to wake up when suddenly in my mind's eye, I saw a good sized Blue Jay come sweeping down at me, swooshing inside my forehead. I saw its white underside as it slide into me. I researched what a blue jay represents and looked on What's Your Sign and am claiming the Blue Jay in my totem.

It was my first dream with both of my parents there. I am so thankful. 

There is so much spiritual support just waiting to help us! You are surrounded by eternal and present love. Accept it and sleep on it! Happy dreaming!

Saying See You Later and Don't Make Me Say it Again

We sat at our last meeting. On Wednesday, the private student I tutor is leaving back for his home country, Korea. We have been meeting every Friday at the Juan Valdez Cafe since July. A few times I cancelled, once he did. But each time Won Jae and I met, we walked away two hours later, filled with Colombian coffee and an everlasting feeling of friendship.

Tutor and student. American. Korean. Female. Male. Both hard to understand, sometimes, but always a genuine respect for the other.

He wrote down lines from watching "Sex and the City" and I'd explain what it meant. We always laughed at some of the absurdities and the way I "acted" out each line, until he'd have to say, "okay, okay," going to the next line.

Yesterday, we reviewed his last essay for our sessions. It was about his experience in Philadelphia, and while visiting, trying to order a McFlurry at McDonald's. "She couldn't understand me," he said of the cashier. "I was so embarrassed." This was also at the same time a few weeks ago when he announced to me he just felt he had not used his time wisely enough during the six months he was in New York, learning English. "Are you kidding?" I asked him, and so I proceeded to show him how he had not only used his time smartly, but had raised his English competency a few levels from my ears and viewpoint just since I'd been meeting with him for the last three months. His eyes brightened and by the end of the session, he told me I had him "all fired up."

So thereafter I brought up "McFlurry" to gauge his confidence level and each time, his smile fell, reliving that moment. Finally, while reading his essay on this last meeting time, I read with happiness that he had written about how he realized mistakes - as in not being understood at the counter at the McDonald's in Philly - didn't matter. And his  certificate from the language school he attended here, revealed his truth:  that he was "advanced."

I read his essay and came to the McFlurry part. I smiled and told him I was going to give him my signature strong last line. I wrote down something and read it to him.  He broke out in laughter.

It was a reenactment of him standing at the McDonald's counter, repeatedly telling the cashier what he wanted only to hear her say:  "What?"  So I gave to him:

"You want me to spell it? McFlurry. M. c. F. l. u. r. r. y.  And with whipped cream."

We sat laughing at our table at Juan Valdez. And laughing. It was just the break we needed in the reality that soon our time would be up. And then he asked me, "If you were 24 again (as he will be in a few days),  what would you do with your life? How would you live it?"

I sat there staring at him. "I'd write," I told him. "I'd keep my expenses low, and I'd write, and I'd write what I wanted to write and I'd experiment, and I'd just keep going."

He smiled. But I knew he wanted something else. He wanted to know what he should do.

"I'd follow my heart on every turn," I told him, "I'd do absolutely everything my heart said to do, and I'd never stop."

He smiled again. We smiled at each other. I knew it was time to go. I looked at my watch.  As usual, we'd gone over half an hour. I asked him what he and his friends were doing tonight? He said they were meeting at 6:30, all of them soon to be flying out of New York, so they were going to explore the city as much as they could before the days came for them to leave. I imagined them enjoying their last few days in this moment. I told myself not to get weepy inside, but I felt it. I'd opened my heart and now, feeling like the military brat I am, realized I had to say good-bye again.

I made Won-Jae promise we would just say, "See you later." We walked to the train station, his first, and we hugged, the first time we'd ever hugged.  I felt like I was saying good-bye to a family member, to a son.

"Thank you," he said to me. And it was as precious as our first meeting, when we'd awkwardly met, him nervous, a fish out of water, and me, wondering how we would kill two hours of time? And then the friendship found rich soil. In that first meeting. I showed him where Jay Z and Beyonce lived when we walked to the train after that first session. It was the same way he bowed to me that I felt today. Precious connection, friendship, kindred, spirit seeing itself in another.

"It was my pleasure," I said, grinning too much, hiding the emotions beating underneath.

W.o.n.j.a.e.

My memory of you will never be a blur.