perfection is serendipitous desk discovery.
Recently I had a day which was pretty freaking close to perfect.
It wasn’t any specific moment, but a coming together of experiences which consistently sparked me to think: I’m lucky.
It was as close to a perfect day as I’d had in what felt like a lifetime.
Later this same day, after food with friends who are family, we all went on a field trip to the AT&T store.
By this hour (on my perfect day not hers) the Child was exhausted and grumpy.
(At one point the kid-portion of our group triggered the security alarm. Still not sure how they made *that* happen.)
Once my friend and I identified her best phone option, I joined the younger subset flopped on the couch in front of the store TV.
“We’re almost done,” I told the boisterous group. “Paperwork and we’re out of here!”
I’d sat for a only a moment when an older woman approached the couch and tapped me on the shoulder.
perfection is friends who are family.
As I turned I braced myself for criticism of our group’s noise volume.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I have to tell you something,” the woman informed me.
“When you came in the store the energy of the entire room shifted. I felt it.” She paused for a moment before she continued.
“The way you carried yourself, how you walked, everything. I’ve never seen someone hold her body the way you hold yours. I told my daughter I needed to tell you this before we left.“
People have told me this my entire life.
My energy. The way I walk. My posture. How I carry myself.
And yet? Each time the interactions happen they take me aback.
Especially in my current season of life.
“Thank you so much for making the time to share that with me,” I responded as I grabbed for the woman’s hand.
“I’m struggling right now and feel like my energy is off.”
I began to tear up as I continued.
“I’m in the middle of a divorce and I’m really, really tired,” I explained.
The woman nodded.
And, as she began to respond, I anticipated her words.
I assumed she would say, as many women have before her, I’ve been there. It will be OK.
“I get it,” the woman replied. “I am in the middle of being old.”
I walked around the couch to where she stood and asked if I could give her a hug.
She said yes I held her for a few extra seconds before releasing her.
After she left (and after I sleeve-wiped my tears) I texted a friend I knew would ‘get’ the power of the interaction.
perfection is friendship.
Someone who’d understand how right now I needed affirmation around how, even at 70%, I was able to shine.
A friend who’d feel the intensity (and message from the Universe) behind the words:
I am in the middle of being old.
I’ve mulled this encounter since it occurred.
Initially I heard it as a directive to do something! with the gifts I possess.
The more I’ve considered it, however, the more Ive framed as a message around how life is a process.
We are all *always* ‘in the middle of’ struggle.
Today, as I reread/edit before pressing publish, I hear it as a musing on grief.
I’m in the middle of grieving the loss of what I’d thought would be precisely as she’s in the middle of grieving something deeply personal about her life.
We’re both enduring and, as I’ve always contended, the notion of struggle is universal and uniting.
Alas, I’ve no Seinfeldian string to yank at the end of this post.
No snappy sentences which magically transform my musings into being applicable for all of us.
All I offer is an interaction I cannot shake, hope I’ll reclaim my missing 30, and a heightened awareness, even when that happens, I’ll discover I’m in the middle of something entirely new.