Her Spirit

So there I am, eating what is supposed to pass for cheese grits (white glob with grated cheese on top) at the Happy Trails Retirement Utopia with my mother and minding my own business, also known as shouting out our day's plans because Mother refuses to wear her hearing aids, when an elderly (imagine that!) man approaches our table in the dining room. 

"Do you know anything about computers?" he asks me.

"Yes sir," I reply. "Is there something I can help you with?"

While eating breakfast at a restaurant in Franklin over the weekend, I heard a father say to his young son, who had spent most of their meal with his head on the table as if in dire straits, "I want you to liven up." 

In the past few weeks I've been approached by two individuals at area gas stations asking me for money. One man was on foot and walked over to me from across the street as I pumped my gas. He wanted to know if I could give him two dollars to take the bus downtown. The other time a man got out of his car, which was already parked near the pumps when I pulled in, and said, "Can I ask you a personal question?" He wanted five dollars because he was on empty.

If you're interested in Centering Prayer, mark your calendar for August 14. Visit the Contemplative Outreach of Middle Tennessee website for more information. Here are the basics:

As the long Fourth of July holiday weekend comes to a close, I find myself thinking about personal independence. All those things, or habits, or, ahem, obsessions, that I want to let go of but haven't yet. Like other people's expectations of me, or doubts about what I might be able to accomplish. I want to be independent from what society seems to demand of me. I want to be independent to choose the path I follow. I can be, I know. And there's no time like the present. 

Last night I attended a gathering of women writers. Sometimes those kinds of events make me nervous, as surely someone there will be more widely published than I, and, quite likely, she will be younger and thinner. If I'm not feeling brave, or especially curious, I won't go. But last night I did, and I'm glad.

There are three of us in the upstairs of Square Books in Oxford, Mississippi. Two young people talking about how unlucky they are in love, how they consider themselves to be romantics yet wish they were more practical. The man should have known that his girlfriend had no intention of trying to "be friends" when they broke up; the woman should stop expecting flowers and weekends in Memphis from the guy who won't return her phone calls. They keep hoping, they both agree, that one day their soul mates will come. 

...and so are jerks, I wanted to respond. Actually that is what I said, but really quietly so no one could hear me, not even the man who had invaded my personal space at a local bookstore while I was minding my own business trying to decide which books to purchase for an editorial project I'm working on. 

Over the weekend I bumped into a friend I don't see often enough to suit me while we were both running errands. "I don't have time for a long chat," she said, "but could we walk together to get a cup of coffee and talk along the way?"

It might not have been as much time as I would have liked, but we were able to touch on the high--and low--points of our lives, and we made a date for a longer visit next month. 

It's a simple thing, really, a card with a few lines of handwritten greetings on it. But it made my day because: (a). it came out of the blue; (b). it was from a friend I adore; (c). it reminded me I am loved. Today I'm going to the post office to buy some stamps.