"Is somebody else sitting here, little lady?" asks the guy, whose name turns out to be Hank. I'm not changing names to protect the innocent. Neither Hank nor I would fall into that particular category. Absent-mindedly, I say "Sure" (said 'the spider to the fly'). And down, he sits, at these glued-together Oakland Airport tables. Now, mumbling into his Miller draft, he groans: "Got a 'hitch in my get-along.'" I can see that my plan to turn my three-hour airport wait into unplugging, recharging fodder,' is headed toward the backseat.
And, yet, I couldn't resist this unexpected guest, sporting a straw cowboy hat, gray cowboy shirt, turquoise and silver ring and belt buckle, above worn jeans and scuffed boots. Hank tells me he's on his way back home to Phoenix.
"You a writer, or something?" he asks, noticing my gymnastic struggle with pen and paper. His inquiry reminds me of the mosquito hovering around your ear on a hot July evening, and you, without a fly swatter. Good thing, though. I would have missed the fireworks.
"Yes, I am," I say, making a feeble attempt to return to the empty tablet, where, instead of words, I am accumulating a sizeable collection of doodles.
"Real books? Or, some of those fake-things, what do 'them there' self-published, or some such lies? You don't write, do ya, for them internet poor excuses for real papers, do ya? The whole 'kit-and-caboodle' of 'em is just another crock of horse puckey."
"In your words, Hank, yes, I'm guilty of writing 'real books,' and articles for the Internet, the Huffington Post, to be exact. Why do you ask?"
By now, Hank's turning red as a beet. It's unclear whether it's the beer or upset fanning some flames. "Oh, not that crap!" says he, "that Commie, Pinko, Liberal puke for socialists! My daughter, the one who ran off to New York, and has these 'high-falootin' ideas about writing for them, she e-mailed my wife and said I should read some g.d. bull about 'unplugging.' I'll do that when God makes hell freeze over. Not in a pig's eye, are you going to see me read one of 'em.!"
You can't make this stuff up. O.K., so now I'm hooked. "Pattern Interruptus" comes back to me from last week. Who, again, was that masked person who wrote about what to do in similar situations? ("Loving Out Loud, Even with Impossible People") Oh, that would be me, known today as 'little lady.'
Scanning my failing memory banks, I cut to the chase back to Howard Thurman's words: "I want to be more loving in my heart." O.K., Howard, sock it to me. "I want to be more loving in my heart," I say silently to myself, dredging up the years of meditation practice, returning my focus to simply breathing, being, not reacting. Ignoring the whole sink-hole of the HP topic, (for now), and my plan to get some writing done. Hoping the Harbormaster would have sent me a decent shipment for the "Unplug and Recharge" series, which is not happening while I'm otherwise occupied with what's before me, I surrender. Maybe something will come later, I tell myself. As Ram Dass put it, best to "be here, now."
What is, is. I turn to Hank: "Your daughter ran away from home? Must have stirred up tough stuff." I continue doodling.
"Darn tootin," says Hank. Motioning to the waitress for another 'brewsky,' he continues: "Go figure kids. You give your whole g.d. life to them, and then they run off to do pure foolishness." She should have stayed on the ranch. Her mother's got cancer. Needs help. I'm no nurse, what am I supposed to do? That's woman's work. She should be home helpin' out."
Side-stepping this landmine, I ask: "How long you been married, Hank?" He looks away. "The cancer's bad, all through her belly. We been hitched 39 years."
"That must be hard, Hank, for you, your wife, your daughter. No one ever knows how to handle those breaks, everyone's way is different." By now, I'm nearly whispering. Almost inaudibly, staring at his weathered boots grazing the floor, he says: "Yeah, but...she should be here with us."
Carpe Diem. Now, it's my turn: "Hank, you strike me as a good man, hiding a tender heart under layers of being the tough guy. Do you think it's an accident you sat down at this table? There are other places to sit, you know." (To which he says, 'Huh?") I continue, as if I've got the floor, which I most definitely do: "Hank, if you want to sit somewhere else, I don't blame you. I won't take it personally. But, if you want a gift, I've got something for you, although this medicine might not taste so yummy right away. Your choice. Which?"
Removing his cowboy hat from atop his crew-cut, he says: "O.K., I'll stay. Shoot. What 'cha' got?"
"I'm not going to shoot, Hank. One thing I know for certain is writers write because they are called to express themselves that way. If your daughter ran away and needs to write non-fiction, isn't it possible that she's trying to talk to you, your wife, and needs some distance to do it? Isn't it possible that her mother's health is scaring the you-know-what out of her? Isn't it possible that you can be a pretty intimating cowboy, even though that's not what seems to be in your heart?"
"Hank, all I'm saying is that maybe what's happening in your family is giving you all a second chance to learn better bridge building. What's most important? All I'm saying is that maybe your daughter and wife are saying something to you, your daughter, through writing, and your wife, through her body. Maybe, to do so, they, and you, need to unplug from judgment, recharge your batteries, your faith in something better for each of you, and get on with it. I don't know, Hank, how much you love your daughter, but I bet, if something happened to her, God forbid, like the death of my own son, I'd bet you'd move mountains to help her. She's still here, just like you, and Sylvia. What's the worst that could happen if you gave your heart a chance to have its say?"
Hearing the overhead speaker announcing my flight's boarding call, I gather my bags, tablet, and pen. "Got to go, Hank. Let me give you something I love that's helping me in my own family, which Howard Thurman said: "I want to be more loving in my heart." I do, too, Hank. You with us?
For the first time, Hank looks me in the eye, and gives a little, nearly toothless smile. "Yep," he says, shaking his head. "I guess I've got work to do just like you." Amen.
Now, I really can't resist. "One more thing, Hank. You might want to check out the HP. There are some decent tips for what you say you want. Safe journey."
Be careful what you ask for! What I keep relearning is that every time I write, or do keynotes, or research, the very subject is like a magnetic attractor, testing me. Like Hank, I've got lots of work to do. How about you? How have you managed your challenges that interrupt your unplugging, recharging time? Join the conversation, and pay it forward. I'm listening.
Love, Cara
To be continued.
To save time, click on Become A Fan. Comments, most welcome. For more, contact me at dr.carabarker@gmail.com, carabarker.net, and join "The Love Project." Coming soon: a time-tested program: "Coming Home to You," "The Art of Authenticity," "The Next Step," and others, and this summer: a teleconference series culled from your requests and comments. Follow Dr. Cara Barker on Twitter: www.twitter.com/DrCaraBarker