Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude for the Lesson

Mary had a heart attack yesterday.

She was walking her spotted dachshund along the Boston Common side of Beacon Street when the dread of what was to coming crept over her. A tightness of the chest? A tingling of the arms? I don't know. I couldn't see her face from my side of the street. The only reason I can be sure that she knew it was coming at all was because she was screaming at anybody nearby: "Will you take my dog?!"

Ahead of me, on my side of the street, a crowd of men I took for tourists started talking in French that was too fast for me to understand anything but the word "chien." Dog.

Mary, screamed again, more insistent this time, clearly distressed as she took another step into the street. One of the French men glanced at the stream of traffic zipping up the hill. The tension in the air was palpable. Dread mingled with an electric charge. She started sobbing as she inched toward the middle of the street. My stomach bottomed out. Alarmed, I called to her, meaning to ask if she was all right, but before my second word was out, Mary was down. A heavy woman, solid, and yet her strong legs swayed, then buckled as if they held all the strength of limp noodles. She folded first to her knees, then to her hands, and then she rolled over onto her back right there in the middle of Beacon Street. Someone yelled, call 9-1-1, so I did as I beelined for the center of the road.

One woman grabbed the dog's leash as I waited for the phone to connect. In the road, Mary lay on her back, her rouged cheeks puffed up on a face that was upside down to me, her hand over her chest. No shortage of people had rushed out, but everyone was hanging back; nobody was talking to her. So I told her my name was Cathy, asked her hers, the dog's. Her name was Mary, she told me. The dog was Happy. When I told her I was calling for an ambulance, she stretched her fingers toward me, her voice childlike:

"Will you hold my hand, please?"

The traffic veered around us. I dropped the pack I was carrying, laid my binder beside that. I put the GPS unit I was using to direct me to a client's house on the ground in front of me beside my purse. Then I took her very cold fingers in mine as I tried to relay information to the 9-1-1 operator. The traffic swerved behind us.

I looked over my shoulder to see how close those cars were. Too close. "Could someone wave the cars around so I don't get hit?" I asked. So I don't get hit. Not we.

Mary's fingers squirmed in my hand. I assured her that help was on the way, and asked her questions the 9-1-1 operator was asking of me. Did she have nitroglycerin? Not on her, she said in a child's cry. A history of heart disease then? A keening, then a drawn out yes. How old was she? Sixty.

A biker stopped, introduced himself as a physician, and went to work loosening the coat around Mary's chest. My hand still in Mary's, I noticed my GPS was gone, and I asked after it. The woman with the dog told me it was just here somewhere. It was mine, I told her. Beside Mary, the physician called out to passersby—did they have nitroglycerin? Aspirin? Someone came forward with a bottle of Bayer. Someone else a bottle of water. Mary choked it all down. The 9-1-1 operator assured me help was coming, then my phone buzzed and the connection was gone.

My GPS got pulled out of Mary's handbag. I took it from the woman. "That's mine," I told her again. Like it mattered. Like I thought she might think I was stealing.

Mary's fingers were still in mine when she started crying about her dog. Where was he? Where was he?

"Here," the woman holding the leash said.

The poor dog was shaking hard enough his collar tinkled, but when I reached my right hand toward him and called his name, he inched closer. I sat like that a few seconds, a minute maybe, my left hand in Mary's, my right hand stroking Happy.

The fire truck arrived first.

As the medics poured on the scene, I remembered I was late, pulled my hand from Mary's, collected my stuff, and slipped back into the crowd without sticking around to find out what happened to Happy, what became of Mary. The only sign that something out of the ordinary had happened was my hands. They shook as I climbed the stairs to my appointment a few minutes later.

I'm sure Mary's gonna be fine. The fact that she was lucid enough to answer questions seems like a sign of survival to me. But what shook me up was the three strikes I racked up quickly. When Mary needed someone to be present with her while her heart ripped her world open, I let myself be distracted with thoughts of preserving my safety, my electronics, my schedule.

What kind of person does that make me?

I don't like any of the answers I came up with yesterday. I like the answers I've come up with this morning even less. But deeper than that, I feel like the message that keeps surfacing from all this is "be present"—not that I have any idea what that might mean in terms of my day-to-day life. I guess today it's enough that I'm grateful for the invitation to the lesson. Maybe that's enough period.

Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude for The Beach

Last night I walked Bo on—not along—the Winthrop Beach outpost. The tide was low enough to let us pass between the crashing waves and the craggy rocks that are too treacherous to travel through in the light—never mind the dark. The people of Winthrop call any movement along the water a wave, but I grew up near the New Hampshire seacoast. I know a real wave has the power to hold you upside down just long enough that you're still laughing when you sputter back to the surface. In Winthrop, the waves are beautiful and calming, but they're nothing more than ripples from some restless mermaid's bath.

The outpost—that's just my name for it, nothing official—is my favorite part of the beach. To reach the water here requires a climb down two staircases, and, once there, you're annexed from Winthrop Beach proper by several impassable jetties. Not many people bother with this little spit of seaside, so because of that, descending to the shore here, particularly when the packed sand is glistening, unmarred by anyone who walked there before you, is descending into another world. An easy transfer to a calmer country, a quick trip to the dark side of the moon. Here, you remember things you'd thought you'd forgotten, allow your brain to turn away from whatever thoughts had you low down, as if what was bothering you just needed communion with the tide to remember how to ebb and ebb and ebb. And at night, when the only light comes from a dim streetlamp, an even dimmer moon, and whatever of those two is reflected on the baby white caps lolling in toward the shore, it's as if the whole purpose of the crash and hum of Winthrop's wee waves is this reminder: the only thing that will really matter tomorrow is remembering to breathe today.

Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude for Physical Strength

So picture me running this week, my ipod cranking up the goof pop, my feet flying, my muscles making quick work of the five inclines on my running route, laughing when I realize that I'm sailing--as in easily--by the restored Victorian house that used to mark the part of the run where my face turned blood red, my legs screamed, and I could hardly catch my breath.

But no more!

I've flown through my runs so fast this week that I have muscle soreness. Not cramps! Soreness. As in I ran hard enough to build muscle. As in I had the steam to run hard enough to build said muscles.

And best yet? My handy Nike/ipod/pedometer thing tells me I was averaging 1o minutes and 52 seconds per mile. So, no, the international Olympic committee isn't exactly beating my door down, but in June it took me more than 50 minutes to run a 3.5-mile road race. And when I started the race, the time clock wasn't even on! Now granted, the field was so packed that there were some points in that race that I had to jog in place and others when I was being passed by pedestrians on the sidewalk, but any way you cut it, 50+ minutes is slow. A pace that has all the fleetness of a garden slug.

Now I've cracked the 11 minute mile! Happily. With a grin on my face! I am the bionic woman: sh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh--nng! I think people recognize the new bionic me, too. There have definitely been a couple of double takes as I pass that I'm choosing to believe have everything to do with people recognizing my new steel core and nothing to do with the fact that I'm a runner with a goofy grin plastered on her face. I'm further choosing to believe that those second looks have even less to do with the fact that, on occassion, I answer the lyrics of my goof pop running selections. Out loud. Like when the song my husband and I chose for our last dance at our wedding comes on and serenade me with"Wow! Look at you now!" and I giggle and say something that sounds in my head like you're damn right, look at me now but I'm sure comes out more like "pant, pant, yeah, giggle, pant, hee-hee!"

So I'm grateful for the clear proof of the added muscle mass, I am. But if the scale wants to start heading back in the right direction (aka DOWN), I'd be grateful for that too.

Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude for Sickening Dread

If you've never ridden in a car with a GPS device to help you navigate your way from point A to point B, you may not know that when you miss a turn—either deliberately or because the jerkwad in the next lane wouldn't let you in—the machine will turn the little car on the map (the icon is GPS-speak for "you are here") before realizing that you are so NOT here. Then, there's a hiccup and a robotized female voice says recalculating as your trip remapped to accommodate your detour.

I'm sure the engineers who programmed the GPS to say "recalculating" intended it as comforting shorthand for we'll get you back on track in a jiffy, but the drop in the timbre of robo woman's voice combined with the way she lingers on the long vowel sound in re-caaal-culating makes it sound for all the world that the person in the driver's seat (AKA me) has been nothing but a colossal disappointment to her, and could I please follow simple directions for once in my sorry little life.

I realized recently that I have an internal GPS.

As models go, I can't recommend it for mass production because the thing has yet to offer me step-by-step instruction on the best route to any of my goals. But it's aces at telling me when I've gone off track. I'm not so crazy that I actually hear some robotized female voice, but I do feel it as a black hole in my stomach that, if left unchecked, will creep up my body to my neck, then up and over my chin, my face, my eyes and hair. And though it's often way wrong about the little things—did I leave the oven on? did I remember to attach the file to that email? will that whacko whose trunk I slapped when he almost ran me over while I was out running yesterday track me down and shoot me at point blank range?—it's pretty much never wrong about the big things. The things that matter.

At the end of my day off yesterday, the dread swamped me—my inner GPS was recaaaaalculating all over the place–and I was glad. Not because having my head swallowed by darkness is such a pleasant experience, but because on a day when I had nothing but time, I only saved an an hour for my writing. My inner GPS can't tell me the best way to finish the novel I'm revising, but it's smart enough to send up a flare when I only use one measly hour of the twenty-four I had free to work on it.

There are times when putting aside an hour in a day is an act of faith—it's all the time I have so I use it. But yesterday wasn't one of those days, and I'm grateful to the vortex of my inner GPS for reminding me that all my excuses disguise the truth: that I'm scared out of my ever-loving mind.

But given that I believe that fears stand up to scrutiny about as well as the Wicked Witch of the West stood up to a bucket of water, I'll say it right here, right now: I'm afraid I don't know how to revise this book.

Any minute now the green skin of fear will start pooling around my feet. No?

How about if I voice this fear: If you don't get your thumb out of your ass, like right this very minute, you risk never finishing a revision at all.

Now there's a fear that feels like a bucket of water tossed in the face. What a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?

Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude For Days Off

Yesterday may have been an exercise in reminding myself why my job is working for me, but today's my day off and there is nothing--nothing--like waking up with an empty day yawning out before me--no scheduled appointments, no expectations. Bliss.

Sure there are things I want to do, and plenty more things I should do (hello, laundry!) but this day's mine all mine, and when my day's my own, wondrous things happen. Like piling up revised pages. And the pancakes I'm eating as I type. The healthy, wheat kind, but pancakes nonetheless. You know. The breakfast we love to eat but never have the time to make? Yeah. Pancakes. Later I might go a little crazy and roast me some veggies for lunch. It's like I'm made of time! Here's my current wish list for today:

1. walk my dog on the beach (an extended walk on this gorgeous fall day),
2. run a 5K (the equivalent distance, not a race),
3. shower (I'll need it after number 2),
4. laundry (because it's nice to have clean clothes on busy days),
5. three writing goals (two scene revisions and the start of a new scene),
6. reading (I'm currently loving "The Patron Saint of Liars" by Ann Patchett),
7. wedding photo sort (I need to decide which wedding photos I want to print before my prepaid card at Ritz expires),
8. blogging, and
9. pancakes.

And with this post, numbers 8 and 9 are done. Let's see how this sunny of sunniest days shapes up, shall we? Yes. Yes, we shall.

*Except maybe waking up on the morning of the first of TWO days off. Like in a row. Like normal people. And with that, my 2010 resolution list has officially begun.

Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude for: Gratitude

I know, I know. True gratitude springs from an overflowing heart. It's supposed to be as pure as icy mountain air and as warm as the patches of sun that woo cats to while away their quiet afternoons. And that's all good--a fine ideal to strive for--but for me gratitude is a tool. A powerful tool, but a tool.

Despite all the blessings in my life, I aspire to gratitude. By that I mean that my full understanding of the many things I have to be grateful about are too often--and too easily--eclipsed by complaints and worry. But I've found that I can scratch the needle off the record of complaint by transforming it to gratitude.

An example: When I get down about my job, I count the hours I spend from the time I leave my house until the time I get back, I focus on how my work schedule--evenings and weekends--means I can't take classes, teach classes, spend time with friends who work traditional hours, or even do something as simple as blow a Saturday farting around with my husband. The complaining doesn't change any of that, of course. It just makes me feel like I'm going through my day with weights sewed into the lining of my clothes. But I've found I can switch my thinking quickly by focusing on grateful realities:

1. In the shakiest economic downturn of my lifetime, I'm grateful to have steady income.
2. Though it's true this schedule is social kryptonite, I'm grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with friends who have non-traditional schedules.
3. I'm grateful that this job leaves my mornings free to write. By being able to prioritize my writing on my daily to-do list, I finished a first draft of a book and am hard at work on a revision.

If I just remember to trade complaints for thanks, my no-good-terrible-very-bad-days* are absolutely bearable. Gratitude is a bit like magic that way. And if that's not something to be thankful for, I don't know what is.


* With apologies to Judith Viorst

Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude for: Low Tech, Too

Stacks of books, an old iron spoon my mom used to teach me how to cream butter for cookies, a cup of tea—no cream, no honey, just tea—old-fashioned twist can openers, slippers, the warmth of the voice that comes from a record, the smell of turkey roasting in the kitchen, the peace of the silence between my husband and me that's our tacit rejection of society's dictum that we should be talking or doing or striving at all times, purple tulips, singer-songwriters who aren't afraid to write songs that are just guitar and voice, tap water, and the carpet of leaves on lawns that belong to people who understand that rakes in the fall are like yuppie tyranny against nature. But above all else, my favorite low tech lovelies are pen and paper. Specifically, any pen with black ink and a hefty grip and simple paper (spiral-bound notebooks from CVS, composition books, legal pads—anything unassuming will do, though I much prefer college-ruled sheets). But the paper is really secondary to the pens.

Oh my pens.

There's nothing quite like the pleasure of long hand in a type, type, type world. Nothing like sprawling across the bed in my office-slash-guest room, staring at a blank page, pen poised to fill it. Nothing like the smooth, cool plastic of the barrel of a Pentel RSVP pen against the skin at the tips of my thumb and index finger. Nothing like the sound of the scratch of the fine point scribbling across the page. Nothing like the sour, nutty smell of black ink that grows stronger the longer I write, the smell wafting up like low tide for writers. Nothing like the bumpy Braille of the inked words beneath my fingertips as I brush my hand over a page full of fresh writing. Nothing like the way inked pages crinkle when I turn to the next, fresh page.