by Irene Daniel
I was all ready a day early last week, to post my blog about the testimony of Secretary of Health and Human Services, Kathleen Sebelius before a committee of the House of Representatives. I had it drafted and all it needed was final proofing; a piece about the condescending and sexist tone of the questions and/or rants of the conservative members of the committee in addressing the Secretary. I thought she did a pretty good job of putting up with them. And then a number of obstacles, mostly technical, intervened.
I've been riding the bus more lately, as I want to do more to reduce my carbon footprint. I used to hate taking public transportation because it reminded me of being poor and living without; but now I recognize this insecurity for what it is: my ego telling me that I am not enough. And my latest transformation has convinced me that my ego is not my amigo, and so, I try to choose higher now; relegating my super-sized ego to the back seat instead of the driver's seat of my life. It sneaks up on me though. It is a constant battle.
Last week I was taking a ride on the red line, when I noticed a little old Mexican lady who looked so much like my mother that it gave me pause. I first noticed her on the platform, a short, white-haired lady, who was accompanied by a younger woman. A daughter? Granddaughter?
It was crowded and there were no seats. I watched her enter the train and grab onto a pole to steady herself for the ride. I was about to get up and offer her my seat, when the Mexican man sitting next to me got up and said, "Senora," and motioned for her to take his seat -- right next to me. We greeted one another in Spanish and talked about how cute the puppy was that the Mexican man was carrying in a little blue pouch.
It really took my breath away. She was so real and alive and she looked like my departed mother. I wanted to reach over and just hold her. I wanted to stroke her white hair and feel her head on my chest. A few stops later, the man who had surrendered his seat found an empty one in front of us and facing sideways. He and the woman began chatting about dogs in rapid Spanish, as she petted the black and white puppy. I closed my eyes and I could hear my mother chatting with her comadres, her sweet laughter piercing through at times. I opened them again and the woman smiled up at me. My heart completely melted and I wished that I could somehow communicate how happy I was that she had sat down beside me. It was a bittersweet happiness.
Earlier in the day, I had seen a young dark-skinned man who looked like my brother Gilbert, who died in October of 1988. He was young and thin and was reading with the same intensity that Gilbert had. He was very focused upon his task, reading and working on his laptop. I thought about all the dreams that Gilbert had, for himself and for others. He was a natural teacher, and still one of the best that I was so fortunate to have had. In many ways, his tutelage prepared me for college and law school better than any other. I wish I had told him that when he was alive.
By the time I got home, I felt heavy and sad. Somehow, I lacked the inspiration and focus needed to complete my Sebelius piece. I couldn't get that sweet Mexican lady out of my head. I thought about my family and about Halloween, the gateway to the Daniel family holiday season. I remembered trick-or-treating all over our small town. I swear we went to every house. I remember so many things that seemed so small and insignificant at the time, but now run through my mind, both comforting and haunting me.
Mostly I realized, as we all do, that it is too late to say "thank you" or "good job" or "I love you." I cannot go back and appreciate fully what was once taken for granted, or even unwanted. I can, however -- and must, move forward now. And I know that it is not too late to appreciate fully what and who is in my life right now.
And it's the small things I appreciate the most these days: walking my dog Maggie, picking flowers with my granddaughter, sharing a laugh with my husband, preparing meals, lighting the first fire of the season, playing Monopoly or Scrabble with the people I love, watching the sun go down or taking in a full moon. Life is precious.
It is this message that I need most to share because it is the one I most need to remember.
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