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15 Mar 2007, 9:38 pm / Stuck at home
We've all talked a lot about slowing down, appreciating the small things that happen each day, and enjoying the "journey" of life. Simplicity is important, but doesn't always come naturally. How do we remind ourselves to take each part in each day as its own little jewel in time? I wanted to share a small incident with you, to demonstrate how this sometimes happens for me, at the strangest moments. I think it's worth noting, even if nothing about it was important, except to me. Since we are entrenched in country life right now, it breaks the monotony of the day when I have to go "to town." Town is just a quick little strip of stores, including a grocery store, about seven miles away from my house. The library, the post office, and the grocery store are my connection to life away from the campground, aside from the people I see every day, and seven miles is just enough of a drive to unwind to some music, watch a few crop dusters diving, and reconnect with the fact that the world still exists. I went in for a gallon of milk and a few items the other day, and there was a new thing going on. A black lady, about 30 years old, had installed herself as a "greeter" outside Mac's Market, giving each customer a cart, and giving a nod and her own brand of welcome. She was slim, bright-eyed, and cheerful. As I reached for the cart she rolled toward me, she said, "That's number three." I had no idea what she meant, but smiled, went in for my groceries, and rolled the cart into her outstretched hands as I left. Today I saw her there again. There were a few people getting carts, receiving their welcome, and I could see this time that the new greeter was mentally challenged in some way, but seemed to be enjoying herself. I heard the lady in front of me say to her, "That's okay, darlin', you don't have to count it." I smiled, because it's so nice to have all these refugees from New Orleans among us in the last year. Since I'm from very near New Orleans, I really miss hearing everyone called "darlin'." It makes me feel loved to hear it all around me again. But the greeter insisted, "I gotta count 'em. If not, who gonna count 'em?" I remembered her telling me my cart was "three" the other day, and the lady from New Orleans looked at me, we shrugged together, and agreed that indeed, someone must count the carts. New Orleans lady took her cart, which was "three," and I took mine, which was "four." I expected the person behind me to get "five." But no, the count started over. The cart behind me was "one." I just had to know. I asked our greeter, "Not five?" She shook her head. "One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. That's how they go." Like a waltz, I guess. The rhythm in her head. The beat of her own inner drum. I couldn't argue. It seemed reasonable enough to me. Four is enough. Her game, her rules. Wasn't she cute? I got a little surge of warmth in my chest, thinking how much I love a small town. If we were somewhere else, would everyone play along with her? Who cared? In St. Joseph, Louisiana, these things are okay. I filled my buggy, browsed around the store, tried to remember what I had on my mental list of things to pick up. At the register, I saw the manager looking out the front door, and he frowned as he heard the greeter telling someone, "That's two." He looked at the elderly lady in front of me, and said, "I'm sorry if she's been bothering everyone. I'm trying to get someone to come pick her up." I was thrilled when the good lady told him, "You leave her alone. You should buy her lunch, that's what. Hmph. Poor little thing, it makes her happy." I agreed with a nod. A man at the next register said, "Yeah, she's no trouble. Gave me Number One when I came in." "I got Number Three," added a young black man, chuckling as he paid for his plate lunch from the deli. Suddenly everyone was smiling. Across three cash registers, down three lines, everyone compared notes on their cart numbers, and a high-five was exchanged when two customers discovered the both had "Twos." What the hell? It was a good way to pass the time waiting in line. The manager relaxed, and by the time I checked out, the mood in the checkout line was like a back yard cookout. We were neighbors, she was our "counter," and this was our conversation about the neighborhood today. All the rest of this afternoon, I've caught myself counting by fours. As I let the dogs out, I saw three robins hopping on the patio. (You don't have the count them, darlin'). As I turned to go back inside, I saw a fourth robin, landing on the roof. There was a sense of finished business as I counted the fourth. Now I could start over at one. Same thing with plates for dinner tonight, glasses for juice, towels I folded, letters I mailed. Now I feel uncomfortable when there are too few or too many of something... I can't get the greeter off my mind, because "Somebody got to count 'em." If we don't, who will?
It's just like what they teach in Zen. Beginner's mind. Just as a child who cannot count above four, we're instructed to get back to a world that is all about NOW. There is no future, no past, and we can't even count past four. Fuzzy things feel nice to touch. Sweet things are tasted without analysis, only pleasure; and if we slow down enough to savor the numbered carts at the grocery store, chat with our neighbors in the line, and smile at one another while we go through our daily routine, then Beginner's Mind and the Zen of the moment is our own. Somebody's got to count 'em. Anne Pierson President of Happy Camper Club, RV Scrapper blessed with friends far and wide, and student beekeeper with Beginner's Mind.
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