In a recent talk with myself, we decided that it's time to take the Dalai Lama's message to heart, to get out on the road and try to catch up with compassion, and if we have a flat tire or two along the way, just fix them and keep on truckin'. There's one problem right off—you can't wrap the meaning of compassion in a tidy little package. Doesn't compassion include the planet as well as its careless tenants?
Here's how my trip's going: The other morning, my daughter, after an overnight stay, greeted me as I emerged from of a cloud of steam.
"You were in that shower 20 minutes—more than 20 minutes!"
"Wasn't!"
"Were!"
Naturally, I was defensive even though while I was in the shower savoring the hot needling stream on my shoulders, an unwelcome thought balloon floated up with the picture of a desperate woman with clinging children struggling across a desolate landscape in search of water for the day. It didn't make me turn off the water though, instead I tallied a few plusses in my behalf: "My sweat glands are shriveled and dried and my ankles don't even get dusty on the bike path, so sometimes I skip a shower. I'm just using that reserve now, that's why I'm staying in longer." And before the smaller and not-quite-as-selfish me ripped that rationale apart, both of us heard the echo of a Dalai Lama chuckle—a chuckle seems to be his way, not reprimands for vagaries he lets us believe we might share.
Anyway, I can report some progress toward the compassionate conservation of that precious resource—I'm steadfast now in turning off the faucet while I brush my teeth. It's still hard to ignore globs of masticated toothpaste plastered around the bowl, but it's a sacrifice that pleases me to make in these times that try men's souls. And yes, there's a little plagiarism there.
Most of us are coping with post-Katrina distress, ongoing Iraq distress, and what-happens-next distress too. And some of us have more on our plates—ever since I moved to the far side of extreme middle age, introspection seems to smite on a much more regular basis, always in the middle of the night where it hangs out. There I am, snug in my feathers, and reruns I'd rather not see insist on billboard time.
Here's a rerun not too god-awful to share—most are: Last night followed an unfun day. I'd gone to the vet with my Jack Russell, Pearl, neck-punctured by a big dog of diverse breed whose name I didn't catch. Pearl mightily resisted intervention on her behalf, so I waited out on the porch while the vet rounded up help to hold her down. I knew Pearl would hold a grudge, and better against the vet than against the apple of her eye—and that's not vanity; we're each the other's apple. When Pearl and I are out frolicking, a lot of times I chant, "Pearly-gater, percolator, skinny-mini-Pearl," and you couldn't read the intense look she gives me as anything but reciprocal love.
Anyway, while I tried to not overly relish the very special warmth of September sun on my shoulders while Pearl lay pinned in the do-not-enter room, a heavily chromed Hummer, black as a celestial black hole and shiny as sun in your eye, pulled up, parked, and a well-shod and superbly coiffed lady—and as spiffy everywhere in between as a TV diva—climbed out and touched down. As she came up the steps it looked like she tried to let a tightly controlled smile slide my way. But my face froze. I couldn't even start a tightly controlled smile to slide back.
"We're on different planets!" was my instantaneous and ungracious thought, and it turned out to be last night's billboard. And on the second showing, fast in the grip of introspection, I admitted that, yes, the Hummer lady and I do share the same planet—our motoring's different is all. And then I admitted that just because the Hummer lady drives a car with a fire-hose gas line doesn't mean she isn't planet compassionate in other ways—I bet she never stands in the shower 'til the hot water's gone.
I didn't get to put a star on my chart after last night's introspection session, but heck, stars aren't introspection's hallmark. I found out, though, that the road to compassion's a 1000-mile journey and I'm only at milepost 43.
By the way, Pearl's just fine.
