If We Let It: Part One

I love surprises. Especially those that offer a shift in perspective, that widen the mind, and open the heart. That prompt us to reflect on how we arrived wherever we are, and where we will choose to go next. We humans are infinitely adaptable, it’s our superpower. It’s also our kryptonite. Because anything can become normalized over time.

If we let it.

I’m just back from a trip that felt like a smile from the Universe — travel was smooth, people everywhere were friendly and kind, old bonds were strengthened and new ones formed. I had opportunities to learn and grow and to push myself beyond my comfort zone. The good weather seemed to follow me from New York to Providence to Boston, and then back again to Portland, where I sit now, in my Little House, snuggled up in all the warm fuzzies. Contemplating the power of connection.

I haven’t written much about the pandemic. It’s still percolating, settling. The lessons it holds for me are scattered like coal dust, not yet crystallized into the gems hidden there. I’m just not ready to mine those gifts yet. But every once in a while, I’m struck with a memory, vivid and meaningful in a post-pandemic context. And then, a juxtaposition of moments that shores up my faith in us… 

---

---

February, 2021

“That’s okay, go ahead,” I said, gesturing to the driver of the white panel van waiting to turn onto the street where I stood next to my car. I just needed to grab some milk from the corner store, no rush. I could pause for a second before crossing the road, to let the van and the traffic behind it continue on their way. The driver’s window was up, so I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but when he waved his hand I thought it was in appreciation, and I nodded, smiling behind my KN95 mask.

So when he screeched around the corner and slammed to a halt, pinning me between my car and his, missing my toes by a hair, I was stunned. And when he jumped out of the van — eyes wide with indignation, face unfettered by any covering and contorted with fury, spittle flying from his mouth as he spewed a string of expletives in my direction — my stomach lurched and I felt the heavy weight of panic rising up into my chest as I crab-sidled my way out from between the two vehicles. This guy is unhinged.

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!” he was screaming, “I have to make a delivery right here you fucking idiot, you fucking Karen!”

I was shaking now, my face hot, my heart pounding. “How would I know that?” I asked as I squeezed my way to freedom, “I was just trying to be nice and let you turn the corner —”

“FUCK YOU!” he hollered as he stormed towards me. His lips curled back, and his small, sharp teeth reminded me of a rabid raccoon, “I was telling you to move, you fucking cunt!”

The C word?! At that, I felt myself shift from confused to enraged. Felt it in my body as I was being sucked into his orbit, his venom attaching itself to me, morphing me into my very worst self, draining me of all reason, leaving behind the acrid taste of bile.

“What is wrong with you?” I shouted through my face mask, pointing to the long stretch of unoccupied pavement in front of my car, “You could’ve parked right there, you asshole!”

Something shifted in his face then, his eyes hardened in a way that brought me back to myself, drew my attention to his clenched fists as he moved closer to me and I felt that electrical jolt of adrenaline that signals danger. But I was in it now, my fury rising to match his, overriding my fear. And my common sense.

“FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!” I screamed from my very core, standing in the middle of the street by now, equally unhinged, blind to anything other than this white-hot moment. Then he took a step toward me, and my survival instinct wheeled my body around and thrust it through the door of the market.

He did not follow me. I watched as he stormed back to the white panel van, climbed in, and peeled away with a screech. He never did deliver that package.

Later, I felt the sting of shame and regret. I’m not usually that person screaming at a stranger outside of the neighborhood market. Years of caring for patients, many struggling with the trifecta of mental health crises, addiction, and trauma, in addition to whatever physical ailment drew us into a shared orbit, had honed my diplomatic skills — on a typical day, I could handle even the most unraveled personality calmly, with compassion and humor. So, how had I let that happen? Why had I allowed myself to become a player in this ridiculous melodrama? Who was I?

I wondered then, about the delivery driver. About his day, his life. About the roots of his anger, why it was so volatile. Wondered what horrors, what things I couldn’t even imagine, might be keeping him up at night. 

Rage is contagious. Stoked by the profound isolation and inconceivable grief smothering us during the darkest days of the pandemic. Reinforced by the fissures in our collective psyche, widening with each click down the electronic rabbit hole. Until it seems, we lost the ability to see each other as whole beings. Opinions forged on sight, instantaneous and fierce. Patience and grace lost in a sea of angst.

What are we becoming? Who will we be on the other side of this? 

That’s what kept me up at night.

April, 2024

I didn’t realize how pessimistic I had become about the state of us, how resigned I had grown to our waning empathy, our myopic world-views, our entrenched suspicion of all things Other. I was numbed to the loss of pleasant, casual interactions. I no longer felt deflated when a smile offered to a passing stranger was deflected, or annoyed when someone ahead of me let a door slam in my face. It was just the norm now, the universal disconnection.

So when I set off across the country for a ten-day visit to New York, Providence, and Boston, my greatest hope was that I would not lose my sense of humor amidst the grind of neotypical travel. I knew better than to hope for a smooth trip.

“I’m sorry,” the airline check-in person said, “but your bag is two pounds over the limit, you’ll have to take something out.” 

I sighed a little on the inside, hoping this wasn’t an omen.

But here was my first surprise — she was smiling. Pleasant, helpful, kind. When I managed to yank out a sweater and secure it around my waist, it only brought the weight down about four ounces, but she winked and said, “That’s just barely a pound over, I can let that go.”

A few minutes later she was running through the security line maze after me, calling “Ma’am! Ma’am!” I turned and saw her waving my wallet in the air, “You forgot this,” she said, out of breath, and still smiling.

There was a lovely woman in the window seat on my flight, I was on the aisle. And the middle seat was empty! When’s the last time that happened? The Lyft driver who picked me up from the airport was cheerful and funny, and when we arrived at the hotel in the East Village, my girlfriend Dana was there waiting for me. I leapt from the car as soon as it slowed by the curb, “Danaaaa!!”

“Saraaaa!!” And we fell into the kind of full-body hug you share with someone you love dearly and haven’t seen in ages — even though we both live on the West Coast, we couldn’t get our act together until it turned out we’d be in New York at the same time.

“Are you sisters?” the Lyft driver asked, as he set my XL suitcase on the sidewalk with a grunt.

“Soul sisters!” I proclaimed, and we launched into a stream-of-consciousness conversation that only ended when I boarded the train to Providence three days later.

It was an urban trailhead, I realize now. The first steps along a path back to hope…

I hope you’ll join me next time, for Part 2: New York City.