Just Like That

And just like that, his carefully laid plan for the day was upended. And so was his cup of coffee.

Covering my ears, I stopped for the siren-blaring ambulance to pass through the intersection on my way to work this morning, thinking nothing of its destination. It wasn't until I approached my office building that I noticed the silently flashing lights and the uniform-clad paramedics crowded around a half-naked man lying on the sidewalk just outside the front door. There were far too many of them to actually see much of what was going on, but it looked serious and the ambulance attendants were preparing the stretcher to take him away. A bare glimpse through the crouched shoulders hovering over the man revealed a face I didn't recognize. A spilled cup of coffee lay on the ground two feet away.

Passersby craned their necks for a closer look; the same ones that cause traffic jams on the freeway even when the accident is on the opposite side. Yea, those guys. I walked past, trying not to intrude on the otherwise very-little-and-quickly-evaporating privacy this poor man had while lying exposed there on the cold ground.

"Just like that," I thought. That man could die today.

I wondered if a heart attack had stricken him as he tried to push through the revolving doors into today's madness and chaos. Was he stressed over some meeting? Some client? Some court order that had already ruined his day?

I wondered whether he would survive his morning wake-up call and, if so, would it change his life. And how?

I wondered yet again why it takes wake-up calls like this for us to regroup, step back, and reevaluate the priorities in our lives. Why? Are we that stubborn? When will we ever learn that we cannot thrive on stress; that it is killing us? I wondered what he would do if he survived -- if he would change anything at all, or if he would rush to get back on the very same merry-go-round from which he had fallen.

I didn't wonder if the machine that grinds us up day after day cares when it spits us out on the sidewalk. That, I already knew.

Someone was cleaning up the spilled coffee as the elevator doors opened and I stepped inside. The man was gone and the hustle bustle continued across the spot where he lay moments earlier, as if he had never been there.

Just like that.

The Last October

Fall. I don't know what it is, but those autumnal decorations bug me every year. Maybe it's just me, but the minute the scarecrow comes out of someone's closet and makes its way onto a fence, a carport, or a front stoop, I start feeling like the ceiling is dropping and the lid on the box is about to close.

I'll admit it: I like summer. A lot. The warm sun, the ocean, the flip flops and shorts; these bring smiles to my world. I literally dread the day the ice skating rink gets installed in downtown San Francisco each year, a day that inevitably follows the Labor Day Christmas decorations already on the shelves in every store. Commerce blooms too early on its annual steroid high. The days shorten, the shadows lengthen, and I miss summer already.

But this year, just after scoffing at the scarecrow in the neighbor's yard and shaking my head, I thought, "What if this were your last October?"

What if.

What if this were the last time the scarecrow's button-eyed gaze followed me each time I passed by? 

What if this were the last crisp October scattering leaves on the ground? 

What if the cobwebs and ghouls and goblins and horns-a-plenty were never to be seen again -- ever? 

And then, right then, it changed. The pumpkins at the market looked friendlier. I fondled the winter squashes one by one, feeling their varying textures and weight and size and not caring who noticed. I gave the scarecrow's nose a gentle tweak the next time I passed by, and smiled.

I think he smiled back.

Friends

Of all the gifts for which I am grateful, one of the most precious is the gift of friends, several of whom have been in my life for 30 years or more. My best friend from third grade kept in touch for over 40 years until she passed away. True friends were right there when I needed them most after my cancer diagnosis -- whether by my side during chemo or at the other end of the telephone line cheering me on from afar.  They are, every one, bright shiny treasures in my life's jewel box. 

Over the years I've learned that some friends come into our lives for something less than all time -- a poem exists describing them as friends for a "reason or a season." The undeniable truth of that makes me sad, and acceptance of it is difficult because of the importance I place on friendship. But even as I have grown to understand that not every friend can be a lifetime one, I value their friendship nonetheless for what it was while it lasted. I am ever grateful for it, because I learn something from them all -- about myself, about others, and about what it is to connect with another human being on this earth. No friendship -- however brief -- is wasted.

Seeing is Believing

Sometimes it takes looking at something twice to see what's really there. Know what I mean? Yesterday I went for a peaceful stroll through an old English tea garden. It was early and the dew was quite literally still on the roses, as the old song goes. I tried to temper my need to photograph every beautiful thing in sight with my parallel desire to be present in the actual moment so as not to miss anything. But today I missed something; something that I only saw quite a bit later when looking at the photographs. A picture I had taken of a rose revealed in startling resolution the droplets of dew that I was unable to see with the naked eye. Or maybe I hadn't looked closely enough even as I framed it in the viewfinder. It reminded me again how many things we miss if we don't take the time -- really take the time -- to see them. Looking vs. seeing. This goes for so many things, really. You could even say the same about listening. The art of listening is quite different from the function of hearing. They both require slowing down and paying attention (she said to herself again; a constant reminder). Yep. Got it.

Stretch It Out

No, this isn't a post about exercise. Or yoga (which may or may not be exercise, depending on how you're doing it). 

It's about time. You know, that thing we never have enough of.

I'm in the vacation vortex this week, running around like a headless chicken trying to make sure that I have luggage locks and passport and shampoo and clothes and the last memo at the office is done and my out-of-office email is set and my voicemail says I've fled the country so please don't expect me to call you back. Oh, and I've got to get the Euros and contact lens solution. It's a veritable festival of "to dos," which I love because I love lists. And making lists. But it's exhausting. Or maybe it's just my approach to it (more likely).

Sometime during the running around I realized that I was having that feeling we all have when bound for paradise: "Just as soon as we're wheels up I can relax!" But then what happens?  What happens is the same thing that happens on every vacation.  One minute I'm "wheels up" and outbound for adventure, and almost exactly five minutes later I'm back at home, sitting at my desk writing memos again. Where did the time go? My vacation was over in the blink of an eye. It's never long enough. Ever.

Then it occurred to me: That's exactly like life, isn't it?  We run and chase and list-make and accomplish tasks and hurry up to retire and then, exactly five minutes after we retire -- not to put too fine a point on it -- we're dead. Yep. There's just no time, or not nearly enough of it.

So I took a deep breath and reminded myself that the running around chaotic madness -- just like with life -- is all part of the journey. If I rush through today anticipating tomorrow or the day after that, then I'm missing today. And I won't ever get today back. And as soon as I dismiss today in favor of tomorrow, I'm just wishing my life away, which is going to end soon enough anyway.

Slow down. Embrace the journey -- the entire journey; chaos or not. Life is more than just about "getting there," wherever "there" is. It's about being here.

Okay, now back to your chaos.