quote:
ORIGINAL: subtee
I got started on this because I was in "Sue" my minivan, and a woman pulled out in front of me and I spilled my coffee...which is, of course, the elixir of the gods. In my younger days I would have taken it personally and gotten totally pissed and would have ridden that wave of rage for a couple of hours. But instead I smiled at her and I imagined her life: she's harried and barely holding it all together, she's late, the kids are mean to her, her husband probably barely acknowledges all that she does, she never gets time for herself and she's this close to going to a bad place.
I smiled at her in commiseration and wanting her to know that what I would assume about her was that she was doing her best.
tee, your post made me think of this poem by Mary Oliver. It's titled "Singapore"
I hope you don't mind if I post it here. I think it's relevant to the topic.
Singapore
In Singapore, in the airport,
A darkness was ripped from my eyes.
In the women’s restroom, one compartment stood open.
A woman knelt there, washing something
in the white bowl.
Disgust argued in my stomach
and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.
A poem should always have birds in it.
Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.
Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.
A waterfall, or if that’s not possible, a fountain
rising and falling.
A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
When the woman turned I could not answer her face.
Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and
neither could win.
She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?
Everybody needs a job.
Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor,
which is dull enough.
She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as
hubcaps, with a blue rag.
Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.
She does not work slowly, nor quickly, like a river.
Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.
I don’t doubt for a moment that she loves her life.
And I want to rise up from the crust and the slop
and fly down to the river.
This probably won’t happen.
But maybe it will.
If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?
Of course, it isn’t.
Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
the light that can shine out of a life. I mean
the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,
The way her smile was only for my sake; I mean
the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.
~ Mary Oliver ~
