She was truly beautiful—tall, slender and finely boned with light green eyes and dark wavy hair.  Her skin was flawless in the way that only young skin can be, and she looked as though she may have been of Hispanic or Asian heritage.  She was dressed in low-slung jeans with heavy work boots and several chains worked through her belt loops.  She wore a small, tightly fitting black tank top, revealing her belly button at the bottom and her collar bones at the top.  She had piercings in both ears, one nostril, and her belly button, as well as an abundance of black leather and silver chain jewelry.  Most startling were the tattoos—at least four of them were visible.  Her right upper arm said “Ambivalent” and her left arm supported a gothic cross.  Her left wrist was tattooed with barbed wire.  Etched across her chest, below her collar bones, was the word “Broken.”  Of course the therapist in me wondered what her story was.

As I paid and asked for help out, she volunteered to put the CD tower into my car for me.  She very carefully carried the tower to my car and together we gently and patiently loaded it in diagonally.  She took great care to pad the places where the wood touched the leather seats.  I thanked her for her time and care, telling her that my husband would be pleased that we had been so careful with the leather.  Laughingly, I said, “If I mess up those seats, he’d be upset, and he’d probably come looking for you, too.”  Shyly, she replied, “It wouldn’t be the first time a husband has come looking for me.”   I smiled, telling her that I could well imagine that was true.  We stood there grinning at each other for a moment, our differences in age and circumstance forgotten, just two women sharing a woman’s joke.

I prefer the way the Japanese soothe commuters, with taped bird calls played on loudspeakers throughout the stations.  The first time I heard this above the tumult of the train station packed with rush hour commuters, I kept looking for the birds.  After hearing a variety of calls in several different stations, I finally figured out that the singing birds were recorded.  How like the Asian mind to combine mechanistic technology with naturalistic beauty with such clever effect!  We don’t have a public transport system here in Houston, so we Houstonians have to find our own ways to make drive time tolerable.  I’ve considered listening to the sounds of nature I have on CD, but worry that I will become too relaxed.  There is a difference in being a commuting passenger and a commuting driver, and I’m a bit afraid I could easily forget that distinction.

I remember listening to Blind Faith, Cream, Traffic–bands featuring one or both of these men–poring over the large album covers with a zeal that no CD jewel case has ever inspired since.  For a time during the 70s, these men were my gods. Both of them seemed to have found and made peace with God on their own terms, as I had learned from seeing them in individual interviews or reading about them.  I was pleased that they included one of my favorite Blind Faith songs, The Presence of the Lord, with its simple and direct lyrics which speak to an uncomplicated and easy relationship with God.  Although we each make our own way there in our own time, I’m grateful for the shared experience of others, who enrich us by their lives, their stories, and best of all, their music.

I have finally found a place to live
Just like I never could before
And I know I don’t have much to give
But soon I’ll open any door.
Everybody knows the secret,
Everybody knows the score.
I have finally found a place to live
In the presence of the Lord.

I love language and am a careful reader.  “Swift compliance” seemed a bit strong for a first request, leaping over gentler phrases such as “kind consideration”, “prompt attention”, and even “urgent action”.  In the politely ascending hierarchy of request language, this phrase sounded like a demand.  I’m certain the writer of the email didn’t intend to be demanding because she also sincerely thanked me for my time.  Her choice of wording was more likely practical; it was a phrase that had worked well and produced results in the past. 

So I quelled the internal rebellion and swiftly complied.  The phrase sticks in my mouth as I find myself repeating it.  It reminds me of our culture, in which speed and action are valued for their own sakes, without much regard for the aftertaste.

We visited Hiroshima on our trip to Japan earlier this year.  The museum there is now dedicated to world peace and contains several monuments and displays.  I snapped this photo of origami cranes made by school children in honor of Sadako Sasaki.  Sadako was a child of two when the bomb hit Hiroshima.  She survived the bombing and became a popular leader in her school until it was discovered that she had leukemia, believed to be a direct result of the bomb fallout.  She fought bravely but eventually died about one year later at age twelve.

There is an old Japanese tradition that says anyone who folds 1000 origami cranes will have their wish granted by the gods.  Sadako folded 1000 cranes, asking to be healed.  Some of her own cranes are in the museum and they are so tiny and delicate that it’s easy to see that she had to use needles and pins to hold them in order to make the folds.  It is said that she continued to fold cranes even after reaching her goal of 1000, sometimes using wrappers from medication when she ran short of folding paper.  Today her memorial at Hiroshima is home to millions of folded cranes, donated by groups and schools from around the world.  I read recently that the museum has several times in the past asked that no more cranes be sent due to space limitations and the overwhelming number of cranes received. 

In the Houston hospital where I sometimes work, there is a display of 1000 cranes hanging from a very tall ceiling in a light-drenched lobby.  Although I’ve admired its graceful form and subtle colorations while passing it on my way up or down the escalator, I never knew its significance.  It must have been hard to wish for a healing that, apparently, didn’t occur in Sadako’s case.  But who knows the role of the cranes in giving her hope as she struggled resolutely on?  And who can say what her wish might eventually have been?  Who can judge that no miracle occurred when there are thousands in the world who fold cranes, joining with Sadako in a brave gesture of hope and peace?  A plaque found in the Hiroshima Peace Memorial is engraved with these words:

 This is our cry. This is our prayer. Peace in the world.

I’ve always heard that dogs bark out of fear, and it’s easy for me to conjure up the image of the frightened, snarling dog with bared teeth, since I have been bitten twice by dogs.  I normally steer well clear of any barking dog.  I thought of the human tendency to sometimes become aggressive in response to fear, and resolved to do my part to reduce fear and aggression by wagging more.  The image continued to please and delight me, but I soon forgot about it.

As my week progressed, I received a few pieces of unexpected bad news.  Nothing too major, just surprising setbacks that caused me to feel fearful.  I noticed myself barking at people, from the guy at the frame shop who twice messed up my order to the woman who cut me off at the pass in my approach to the only available register in a crowded shop.  Their startled reactions mirrored back to me my own emotional state, but the image of the angry and frightened barking dog came to me too late to stop myself.  I resolved to do better by making a conscious intention to wag more, even if I didn’t feel like it.  It was fun to play with this image and see myself as friendly, open and non-judging, and people responded in surprising and generous ways.  Now if I can just get them to pet me . . .

A father was hurrying his young son along to an athletic event.  The boy dawdled as he noticed an unusual rock, pointing it out to his father.  The father barely acknowledged his son’s curiosity, instead admonishing him that they would be late for the pre-game meal.  Then the boy noticed a startling butterfly, taking his father’s hand as he pointed it out to him:  “Did you ever see a butterfly like that before?”  The father was in no mood to be waylaid by wonder, and again urged the small boy along.

Later in the week, his son came into the den where his father sat reading the newspaper.  The boy announced importantly that he was the president of a new club.  Looking out from the side of the newspaper a fraction, his father asked, “And how many people are in your club?”  “I’m the only one,” answered his son.  Now really interested, the father lowered the paper and looked over his reading glasses to his son.  “And what’s the name of your club?”  “I call it the Slow Club, Dad, and it’s about moving real slow so that we won’t miss anything as we go along.”  The congregation nodded and chuckled appreciatively at the wisdom and humor of the story.

As we were exiting the freeway on our way home, a car anxious to get into the access lane darted ahead of us, just milliseconds before we merged into the main lanes.  “I signaled so he would know we were getting over,” said my husband, in an uncharacteristically placid response to any kind of driving skirmish.  “He needs to join the Slow Club!” he continued. 

We ate lunch outside, savoring the wine and salad as we took our time, accompanied by the trio of birdsong, rustling leaves, and wind chimes.  I hope the “Slow Club” will become part of our family lexicon, much like the term “sloth clothes” borrowed from my sister and brother-in-law, which is now the term my family uses to describe the comfy clothing we don when we intend to really relax.

 Back and forth we talked through the interpreter as he taught us how to sit and quiet our minds.  We had a short warm-up session and then moved into a longer period of meditation.  The monk seemed to noticeably relax as we asked questions and practiced meditation.  He even ventured a joke and we all laughed good-naturedly.  As the entire group meditated I found myself settling more deeply into the experience, enjoying the present moment–the sounds of birds calling in the garden and the layered aroma of incense.  My mind kept returning to the surprise of encountering a nervous Zen master.  But like all of us, perhaps he too was attached to getting it right, uncomfortable with the unknown and the different.  That’s why I travel–to challenge my comfort zone of certainty and familiarity with curiosity.  Maybe it’s the same reason the monk chooses to teach Western visitors how to meditate.  At the end of our meditation period he was smiling affably and agreed to pose for this picture.  Arigato. 

But it is exactly that safety I’m often trying to achieve in my life, with all my planning, thinking and anticipations of the future. I had been somewhere else, and not really present to myself at all while driving my car. That’s why I turned on the nav system in the first place-so I could create a little white space in my head for a few moments. And then the voice snapped me out of that reverie with, “You have reached your destination.” A little zoning out can be a good thing.