When I worked at the newspaper all those years, there were times when I was needed “in the shop,” which was the section of the building where our commercial printing operation was housed. We — the staff — were all needed back there on some days to help put together big jobs, like calendars for the local schools or various documents that were in triplet, which we had to stack one on top the other in order for them to be connected properly. The word we used as a catchall for that process was simply “collating.” Don or Dad would say, “We need some hands in the shop for collating,” and people would moan a little and try to figure out what they might be able to say they had to do instead. But usually a crew of us would trudge back and settle in to the tedious process. It wasn’t so bad. Dad used to joke the work required “a strong back and a weak mind.” We would all find a “station” and start in on the job, with thousands to do usually. Thousands and thousands. Pull this paper, put it on top of or inside of this paper, maybe add a third thing, then “jog” it, or rattle it downward on the table to straighten it out and line it up. Then stack it neatly on top of the last one. Over and over. On and on. For hours.
The work was indeed tedious, but it was also a time of freedom. Freedom to dream, to figure out problems, to create stories, to remember times past. Repetitive work can be meditative. In just a little while, I could be a million miles away. And time would pass before I even realized it. Of course, that can be a problem if you somehow get out of sync and start collating incorrectly. Then you just keep doing it wrong, on and on, until someone shakes you awake. “MARY! You are putting two of the same pages in those!” Then you look at your finished pile and see that you have done that for the past 373 documents. Sigh. Of course catching the mistake then is way better than having the customer come storming in holding up 500 pages that are collated all wrong, screaming for a refund. So one simply takes the mistakes back, un-collates them, and starts again. Nowadays the machinery is far fancier, and does most of the collating itself. But back in my day (said with proper old-person, hands-on-hips, eye-rolling disdain), it was on us.
One day I was collating calendars, which is pretty tiresome as there are a number of pages to pull together. But I had a long open tabletop for my work, and I slipped on down the line, over and over, inserting May and June into April and July, March and August into February and September, and so on. I was facing a window, across my table. So I could look outside as I shuffled by. But what I noticed was actually on the inside of the window. A bee. I think it was a little wasp or some other small buzzy thing. It was flying into the window, bump bump bump, over and over. I figured it was trying to get outside. The kicker was that the window was open to the air just above where the bee was bumping. The insect was literally an inch away from freedom, but it kept bumping, bumping against the glass just below where it should. On and on it bumped, each time I shuffled past, collating the calendar. I kept willing it to just go up a little bit, just venture onto the window frame and then it would be out; Out, free and able to fly as far and in whatever direction it might desire. Just a few bee steps upward and it would make it. But no. Instead the bee went farther down the window, and into a corner, full of dirt and cobwebs. It bobbled around in the filth for a while, getting dust on its legs, and continued to bump, bump, bump. So fruitless an effort, in vain. It climbed back upward then, and I was wishing it all the positive vibes I could create with my brain, willing it to go onto the damn window frame and then find its way out. Its furry, dusty leg even touched the edge of the frame, but then it leapt back, as if the bee needed to be able to see the outside in order to get to it. If it went onto the window frame, the site of freedom disappeared. So it shied away from the very place it would have to go if it wanted out.
At this point I figure you are asking, “Why the heck didn’t you just shove it out, you doof? Or squash it?” Wow, two questions there, and derisive to boot…. As for shoving it out, I did. Eventually. After I had watched it struggle for some time. And out it flew, without so much as a wave or nod, into the blue sky, free. And I didn’t squash it because I grew up with a father who carried every creature out of our house intent on keeping whatever it was alive, from spiders to snakes to bats. Everything has a right to be alive, and we don’t have the right to squash stuff just because we can. See what I did there? Plugged in a little preaching about not squashing bugs. Pretty slick. And I don’t mean the bugs.
Anyhoo….back to collating. I mentioned that it is meditative, and it is. So after freeing my bee friend, I had a long reverie about how humans are a lot like that. We always think we know the pathway to our freedom and happiness, but often we are only shoving our faces around in cobwebs and antique dirt, unable to see how to get out, and totally unaware of how close the answer really is sometimes. I could see because I was clear across the table, watching the insect struggle, able to visualize its remedy. But it couldn’t see it.
The everyday news of this world is getting me down. I think social media is partly to blame, as I tend to keep my eye on it a lot and it can be so depressing. But I don’t want to hide from everything just because it’s depressing. I want to be aware of what is happening in our world because it’s the only world we have, and it’s a fine mess right now. And like the bee, we are all off in our messy corners, bumping about, seeing what we perceive to be the right path, but blind to the whole picture. I often imagine what it would be like to rise above everything; to literally rise up and see the world like I could see that bee. We’d witness all the effort, all the work, all the striving. And we’d see all the futility, all the pain, all the failure. What would seem so huge to the little people down there would seem lost in the wideness of the whole world, the whole picture.
Today our world is full of passionate debate, of reaction, of judgment. There is despair and frustration, and there is weariness. Such a weariness. A heaviness that pulls us down. Which reminds me of a hilarious story. (Segues are my specialty.) John and I took his mom to a percussion concert one time at West Virginia University. Our son Rob was in the show, and we decided to bring Alice (John’s mom) even though she had grown rather infirm and foggy-brained. Percussion shows can be wonderful. On the other side of the coin, they can be excruciating. Or a little of both. Generally I enjoyed the shows over the years Rob spent in school, but there were just a few times when I wanted to crawl out of my skin and slither away, like when a drum solo would go on for 25 minutes (yes, that happened), or when a marimba piece with no discernible melody but with the same note being struck one gazillion times would drag on until I wanted to stand and squeal at them to wrap it up. At this particular concert, there was a piece that did go on a bit. Alice then said she needed to go to the ladies’ room, so John popped up and escorted her out. He said when she came out of the bathroom, she asked him something, at first gently, then with a bit more emphasis. “Do you suppose everyone in there is like me?” she asked. “AT THE END OF THEIR ROPES?” We still laugh about that.
But I do think that a lot of people are like that now… just like me, at the end of our ropes. The animosity and venom rage on. Comment sections are like Wrestle Mania, but real. People are figuratively hitting each other over the heads with folding chairs without so much as a “hey, let’s talk about this.” They are leaping off the third rope onto people already lying on the floor, and gauging them with elbows to the spleens. It’s brutal. A man is shown to be too handsy and he is crucified for it. And then those who defend him are ravaged by one camp, and those who condemn him are ravaged by the opposite. There is no view of freedom in sight. It’s just the dirty, gross corners where we all wallow about, with no effort to look up or out. We just keep looking right where we think we should, and ignore any notion of casting our gaze elsewhere.
Empathy. I love that word. I love how it looks, and I love how it is spelled. It’s a pretty word. It is spelled nearly the same in most of the Romantic languages. Empathie in German and French, empatia in Spanish, empati in Danish, and, uh… сопереживание in Russian. Wow. Anyway, it’s a good word. And its meaning is integral to our existence. To experience the feelings and thoughts of another being; To tread the path of another while wearing her shoes; To see through another’s eyes. I have been on the planet for 56 years, and I have learned some things. One of the most important has been realizing that some people do not utilize empathy. Some do not tune into the “how would I feel if…” place, and I think that is because it’s hard. It’s terribly hard. If one is not taught that practice as a child, then that heart is hardened. If a wee one is not shown empathy, how can he learn it? And if he is not shown it, how does know if what he feels matters? We parents and aunts and uncles and teachers and mentors must listen to the wee voices. The personality is in there. It’s whole. A child needs to know that he matters, and he needs to know that others matter, too. If he learns it, then it will be there. He may fight it when empathy casts its sting, but it’ll be there.
As we float above the Earth and all her creatures down there bumping against windows, how far do we have to rise in order to see how some things simply don’t matter? In this vast picture, this open and majestic view of life, what will stand out to us? As we gaze from our new perspective, I would hope some things would be diminished, as would only be right. The obsession with our bodies might go away. Not with health, mind you — I think being well is vital. But our looks, our presentation to the world of these vehicles that carry our souls about. How important is it that we dress these things so well, or that we place such importance on how well we are keeping them in absolute tip-top shape? Do we need to spend ages on discussing our latest exercise endeavors or our best makeup techniques? We are slaves to our worry over our visages, that is for sure. We get cut with knives to fix our faces, to find the younger one there under the aged places. I do understand that entirely. But I hope as we rise up, we can forego our fretting over this part of our lives. We spend so much time on how we perceive the appearance of others, even though appearance has nearly zero to do with the person, the mind, or the soul in there. So let’s pretend we will disregard that part. What else can we disregard? Maybe we could scurry about a little less, reduce our busyness, purge our calendars that are packed with so many things that there is no room to sit and think. Everyone needs to sit and think. Kids need to sit and think. We schedule their days like they are in military school. And we rush about, driving here and there, gathering up kids, dropping them off, volunteering, making food, comparing our lives with other parents, fretting…. all the fretting. Bump, bump, bump against the window we go.
From our new wide view, maybe we would be able to better see this amazing blue dot of a planet out here in the middle of nowhere. How was it that a spark of life took off so very long ago, and our ship became capable of sustaining life? In this vast, cold, silent space, life somehow snapped awake on this rock, and over the millennia it has thrived and teemed. What kind of magic is that? How often do we pause to think on it? We are living miracles. Life is a miracle, a mystery, a journey with every possible fascinating turn. But when we are lost in its minutia, we forget. So easily. In the play Our Town by Thornton Wilder, there is a poignant scene of the young character Emily, who has died. She is given the opportunity to relive a day; just an ordinary day. She chooses her 12th birthday, and finds herself being called to breakfast by her mother, who to Emily seems so young and lovely. While her mother and father go about their daily tasks, Emily tries to halt the scene and take it all in, and she begs the living to see it, too, and to cherish all of it. She is so completely overwhelmed by the beauty of every moment that she can’t bear to stay. She leaves, bidding farewell to her Earthly existence: “Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners . . . Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking . . . and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths . . . and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.” Indeed.
If only we could drag ourselves out of those dark corners, even for a little bit, to take a new look at this world, like Emily did, and to relish the magic of being alive in it. How lucky we are to stroke our cat’s head as he purrs, or to wrap our arms around our dog’s fine neck and rest our head against hers. What magic allows us to get up onto a horse and feel its strength beneath us, and ride off with abandon? How perfect are our tongues that can taste chocolate, or can make a kiss so suddenly and urgently passionate? Our fingers and toes are so perfectly designed, with the bones and sinew so aligned that we can hike or dance; play the piano or make a pie crust; or braid the fine hair of a child. We can use these vocal cords and make music right in our throats. We have adapted to life on this planet in ways that none of us ever truly realizes. So many ideas and inventions, so many conveniences. We are fantastic creatures and we can do so much. We can look into the eyes of our lovers or our babies, and we can sense the comfort of love there. The touch of one hand to another gives us solace. We can hug. We can laugh. All of it.
If we stepped up the window just a little, maybe we could see our dear Earth more clearly. Perhaps we could detect the changing colors of the water, the sea’s unhealthy rise, the hillsides too brown. Maybe we would be inspired to be more careful — to turn off the spigot sooner, use fewer plastics, recycle our stuff — any of that. The planet is not invulnerable. Oh, she’s tough. Tough as can be. But if we don’t treat her with some understanding and kindness, she’s going to stop being as hospitable as she’s been all these gazillion revolutions ‘round the sun. She doesn’t have much of a choice. We’re getting to be a problem. Like a rash. An itchy, relentless rash that is spreading and not responding to remedies very well. I mean, we’re a cute rash, sure. Our babies are to die for. And we’re funny and clever and ingenious sometimes. But we aren’t very nice to our planet these days, and we take her for granted 100% of our time here. We should try not to do that so much.
I readily admit that much of this I am writing for myself because I feel so defeated in this world sometimes. As the bizarre, surreal politics play out every day, I feel the noose of unenlightenment tightening. Human beings driven by fear or by greed can be a scary lot. As the axe of division continues to chop away, people seem to find it easier to simply categorize those they don’t understand. The “dems” or “libtards”; the “repuglicans” or “magats” — names for those with whom we disagree. We put these people into a box, and then we can easily strip them of any humanity. We lump them into one pile and declare that pile to be worthless. My mom has always taught me that everyone has some good. Everyone. And we have to work to find it sometimes. But in this time of instant updates and a hawk-eyed social media public, we have no time to breathe, let alone find the good. So our boxes of disregarded humans just get more packed. We don’t remember that they are more like us than not. We just remember to hate them. We hide them and check them off our “friend” list. We avoid them. When a person randomly holds a door for me or exchanges a brief kind word with me, I wonder sometimes if we would be as kind to one another if we knew more. I hope so, but I am certainly not sure.
As we stretch our wings up here above all the complications of this wearying world, perhaps we’ll stop seeing borders on the land. Maybe we’ll just see land, as it is, with no man-made lines of separation. How freeing that would be. Goodbye to tribalism and nationalism — those -isms that bring such hardship. We are intent on building walls and fences to keep the “other” out. Why? What is the point of staking out a spot and then fighting to the death over it? Why are we compelled to seek out more land and shove others away from it by force in order to have it? Why are we convinced that the way we live is the right way, and all should fall in line or be gone? All of this leads to nothing but pain. Over and over, on and on, bump, bump, bump.
In our little arcs of existence on this planet, we sure do spend a lot of our time fretting about how others live their own arcs. I don’t think it is the best use of our time to police others, and to make laws based on how a certain portion of people perceive how one should live a life. I believe we must protect our children, of course, and protect one another from those who may harm us. But when it comes to who people choose to love and to be loved in return — why would we fret about that? If we are finding our own comfort and building our own unique relationships, I see no reason at all to step out of that pursuit in order to complain, penalize, and actually enact laws to restrict how others find their own contentment. Fear drives much of that, I think. Humans fear losing the familiar and of having to adjust to the unfamiliar. The idea of losing one’s footing, of being proven wrong, of being unsure of how to proceed — those are powerful tools for the fear-mongers who feed the flames of insecurity, convincing followers that they must rise up against the new. Then deep-seated sexism and racism are validated and fanned to raging flames. Fear leads to more groups of people being shoved into the boxes stripped of their humanness, and the divisions deepen. Such a vicious cycle.
In the embattled existence we all have to varying degrees, there is only one true remedy to all that ails us. We can have all the money in the world, or the most splendid mansion, or the most followers on social media, or a dizzying stack of awards won. But what comforts us more than any of this? The comfort of another living thing. The security of knowing we matter to someone. And as we slip away from this planet and go on, I truly believe the only thing we take with us is love. Love is our buoyant, warm transport to the next step. We are sent off by all the souls who hold us dear. I am pretty sure we will feel that blanket of care as we head out. And those who mourn our exit will rely on love to heal and to go on without us. So in the end, nothing is as vital as love. Nothing is as lasting or as real. If we could step up on that window frame and look out, I think love is what we would see. If we behave as if that is all that matters, then we find more patience, more acceptance, more ease, and less stress. When we look at others with at least a semblance of love and a moment’s worth of empathy, seeing them as actual living beings all trying to make their way along this bizarre and magic path of life, the heaviness in our own hearts lifts. It just does. And we move closer to the way out of those bleak, useless places where what we do and the energy we expend is all futility.
Over the many years since I collated that calendar, I have thought about the bee. When I finally realize at times that I am wallowing in the filthy corner doing nothing but getting tired, I do try to turn around and aim for the window frame. I’m not sure at all if I am very often successful, but at least I give it a go. I hope I keep trying. You’re welcome to give it a whirl, too.