Yesterday while heading down to Chelsea on the A train, a couple and their daughter boarded the A train at 59th St. They may have been from out of town, heading back to JFK. They looked eager to leave the hell hole that most non-New Yorker Americans consider The Big Apple to be. The family carried two small suitcases, the man carried a backpack, heavily laden and slung over one shoulder. The train was crowded, there were only two empty seats available. The woman offered to stand, but the man growled for her to sit down. She slunk into the seat, staring straight ahead, her top lip quivering. The man stood with lips pursed, not looking at his family. The little girl opened a book and buried her nose in it.
That got me thinking about the nature of pain. Everybody has it, though different degrees and species exist. Most of us try to hide it, with varying amounts of success. I'm quite accustomed to it, subject as I am to belly aches. I'm no wimp-- I've completed two NYC marathons and dance ballet on pointe. But the pain in my belly sometimes brings tears to my eyes and stops me dead in my tracks, nauseous, doubled over on a subway bench, unable to walk.
The funny thing about pain is others don't want to hear about it. My own tentative attempts revealed: a psychiatrist friend who assured me I was somatizing even as I described the lab findings, another person who denied my pain, saying, you don't have to be sick you know; friends who pushed food and drinks on me, not understanding why I can't indulge; real rejection by another friend, perhaps for someone simpler (does such a thing exist?) I make excuses for them: I'm good at sucking it up, though I know it sometimes shows in my face, the tone of my voice. How can I expect them to understand, when I try not to reveal it?
Pain is pain, be it mental (the woman on yesterday's A train) or physical (mine). As I looked at the woman barely holding back tears, I thought of each of our hidden pains. Preoccupied by them, we forget to acknowledge the experience of others. But every once in awhile, a friend, a family member, a stranger acknowledges our pain and helps us endure. Such people are rare. They remind us to reach outside ourselves, to connect with others, and in so doing, they help us live through our pain.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Pre-Spring Cleaning and Random Acts of Kindness
This weekend, for various reasons, I did a mega round of pre-spring cleaning. I fit as many unnecessary items as possible into five big bags, carried them down my five flights of stairs, loaded my car, and drove down to Housing Works for a donation. Parting with one's possessions brings mixed emotions. Items carry memories, whether good or bad, and letting go can be difficult. Yet, once done, I feel relieved, less tied to the material realm. And I count myself lucky to be able to start a new phase.
It was after dark on Saturday and Columbus Avenue was empty. Winter this year had been so mild that it left me wondering when Nature would have her vengeance. Saturday night she seemed to be reading my thoughts. The air had turned cold and few people were on the streets. I double parked my car and hustled to place the bags in front of Housing Works' closed doors. I was exhausted, not noticing those around me. As I stooped over my work, a woman walked past and said, "Thank you for donating. It's kind of you." Before I knew what to say, she had disappeared.
I hurried back to my car for the last load. In the back seat I noticed an old blanket that I never use. I had not thought to donate it, but then I figured, might as well. I placed it atop the five big bags. As I turned wearily back to the car, a woman in a motorized wheelchair stopped to eye my donation. She took the blanket, held it up for inspection. You're giving this away, she asked. Yes, I said, you can have it. She looked at it longingly, placed it over her knees, and said, Thank you. I'm always looking for things to keep my knees warm, and this is just the right size. It's yours, I replied, Enjoy. I wish I could have thought of more to say, but I was too tired. Back at my car, I looked again at the woman. She was smiling, smoothing the blanket over her knees, fondling it's texture.
Sometimes this city can make you feel alone and unwanted. People can seem hard and angry at their fellow human beings. Once in my neighborhood, while I was walking down the street, a pile of poop fell from the sky and landed two feet in front of me. Someone had thrown it out the window, unconcerned about (or trying to hit?) those beneath. Had I been more impatient, walking more quickly, I would have been splattered with the stuff.
Random acts of kindness are not always returned, or even noticed in this world. But when you can make at least one other human being fleetingly happy (an old woman in a wheelchair with cold knees), it's one way to forget the shit that falls from the sky.
It was after dark on Saturday and Columbus Avenue was empty. Winter this year had been so mild that it left me wondering when Nature would have her vengeance. Saturday night she seemed to be reading my thoughts. The air had turned cold and few people were on the streets. I double parked my car and hustled to place the bags in front of Housing Works' closed doors. I was exhausted, not noticing those around me. As I stooped over my work, a woman walked past and said, "Thank you for donating. It's kind of you." Before I knew what to say, she had disappeared.
I hurried back to my car for the last load. In the back seat I noticed an old blanket that I never use. I had not thought to donate it, but then I figured, might as well. I placed it atop the five big bags. As I turned wearily back to the car, a woman in a motorized wheelchair stopped to eye my donation. She took the blanket, held it up for inspection. You're giving this away, she asked. Yes, I said, you can have it. She looked at it longingly, placed it over her knees, and said, Thank you. I'm always looking for things to keep my knees warm, and this is just the right size. It's yours, I replied, Enjoy. I wish I could have thought of more to say, but I was too tired. Back at my car, I looked again at the woman. She was smiling, smoothing the blanket over her knees, fondling it's texture.
Sometimes this city can make you feel alone and unwanted. People can seem hard and angry at their fellow human beings. Once in my neighborhood, while I was walking down the street, a pile of poop fell from the sky and landed two feet in front of me. Someone had thrown it out the window, unconcerned about (or trying to hit?) those beneath. Had I been more impatient, walking more quickly, I would have been splattered with the stuff.
Random acts of kindness are not always returned, or even noticed in this world. But when you can make at least one other human being fleetingly happy (an old woman in a wheelchair with cold knees), it's one way to forget the shit that falls from the sky.
Monday, February 6, 2012
It Starts Early
Today in the staffed elevator at the 190th St. subway stop the operator was playing 1970s pop music. Near me a little girl with jet black hair cut in a page boy tugged on her father's hand. She wore a bright orange ski parka that set to dancing when she heard the music. With a squeal of joy she noticed a similar being: a little boy just her age near the front of the elevator. She let go her father's hand and took three bouncy steps toward the boy. But either too many people barred the way, or the boy did not reciprocate, because the girl returned quickly to the safety of her father's hand, still trying to catch the boy's attention. The boy held his mother's hand and stared blankly at the steel door in front of him.
When the elevator doors opened, the boy and his mother exited first. The little girl rushed out with her father and took a few quick steps toward the boy. Now seemingly preoccupied with the stairs up to Ft. Washington, he took no notice. The father delayed a few steps, holding the little girl back to ward off further disappointment.
After a tasteful delay, they continued up the stairs. I turned for one last look. The little girl had resumed her jouncy step and was smiling, ready for the next adventure. I thought, it would be nice if big girls still had fathers to gently warn us away from futile endeavors. Barring that, I'll settle for a bright orange ski parka.
When the elevator doors opened, the boy and his mother exited first. The little girl rushed out with her father and took a few quick steps toward the boy. Now seemingly preoccupied with the stairs up to Ft. Washington, he took no notice. The father delayed a few steps, holding the little girl back to ward off further disappointment.
After a tasteful delay, they continued up the stairs. I turned for one last look. The little girl had resumed her jouncy step and was smiling, ready for the next adventure. I thought, it would be nice if big girls still had fathers to gently warn us away from futile endeavors. Barring that, I'll settle for a bright orange ski parka.
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