A friend once did me a great service: she called me selfish.
I was gobsmacked at the time, layers of defense cut clean by invested emotion. I remember blinking like a caught fish, as if the power of my moving lashes could affect time or delete the words. But they were said, and hung in the air.
I adored this friend, so how could I be selfish?! We met every week at the same restaurant. At the same scheduled time. Where she would eat the same dish. And have the same drink. Both prepared the same way. And then we would schedule the next meeting, even knowing nothing would change. Every time.
And I would be late. Every time.
My times of arrival changed each week, but it was always after what we'd agreed on. Which I could admit was passive-aggressive, but selfish!? Ha. Whatever.
Looking back, I see how I only saw my side, and how everything she did made her just. More. Wrong. I only saw how she was taking from me, and couldn't see what she was trying to give.
I didn't see how I wanted my cake because not sharing meant more than keeping a friend.
Tonight, another conversation happened. Sue's 70, and cooked for 13 hours today; then set up for another long day to start tomorrow. She, with her grit apparent, spoke of her son's drug addiction. Her keen gaze focused on stew pots and muffin tins softened when she shared her son's been sober for a bit over a year now.
Then hardened when she asked how people younger than either of us could fill multiple WalMart carts using food stamps after visiting a local church to have someone else cover the electric bill. Her anger stewed as she pondered how others' slices seemed more impressive being ill-gotten. She blamed the government for making society lazy.
She asked me what I thought, and I wasn't sure what to say. I didn't know how to share that no one was taking her cake, or how it doesn't matter what's on the menu when the soul's not satisfied. It's all tasteless pastry, flaking into nothingness.
But as we talked and washed dishes, Sue kept packing up food. Gumbo from the pots she scrubbed turned up in a packed foil-covered cup; along with another filled with soup while I was distracted, drying silverware.
Somehow, all told after an hour and a half of wiping down a kitchen, wrapping food, drying dishes, and being speaking truth when asked my thoughts by a stranger, I walked out with a foil cake pan filled with 2 Big Gulps of gumbo and beef soup, along 2 pieces of lemon cake.
And 8 pieces of chocolate cake to share.
All because I stayed to help someone who could have done everything on her own and didn't really need me. She even asked if I didn't have some place to go at one point, and something else to do.
Nope, I said. I've got no plans tonight, other than to enjoy sharing some cake.
I was gobsmacked at the time, layers of defense cut clean by invested emotion. I remember blinking like a caught fish, as if the power of my moving lashes could affect time or delete the words. But they were said, and hung in the air.
I adored this friend, so how could I be selfish?! We met every week at the same restaurant. At the same scheduled time. Where she would eat the same dish. And have the same drink. Both prepared the same way. And then we would schedule the next meeting, even knowing nothing would change. Every time.
And I would be late. Every time.
My times of arrival changed each week, but it was always after what we'd agreed on. Which I could admit was passive-aggressive, but selfish!? Ha. Whatever.
Looking back, I see how I only saw my side, and how everything she did made her just. More. Wrong. I only saw how she was taking from me, and couldn't see what she was trying to give.
I didn't see how I wanted my cake because not sharing meant more than keeping a friend.
Tonight, another conversation happened. Sue's 70, and cooked for 13 hours today; then set up for another long day to start tomorrow. She, with her grit apparent, spoke of her son's drug addiction. Her keen gaze focused on stew pots and muffin tins softened when she shared her son's been sober for a bit over a year now.
Then hardened when she asked how people younger than either of us could fill multiple WalMart carts using food stamps after visiting a local church to have someone else cover the electric bill. Her anger stewed as she pondered how others' slices seemed more impressive being ill-gotten. She blamed the government for making society lazy.
She asked me what I thought, and I wasn't sure what to say. I didn't know how to share that no one was taking her cake, or how it doesn't matter what's on the menu when the soul's not satisfied. It's all tasteless pastry, flaking into nothingness.
But as we talked and washed dishes, Sue kept packing up food. Gumbo from the pots she scrubbed turned up in a packed foil-covered cup; along with another filled with soup while I was distracted, drying silverware.
Somehow, all told after an hour and a half of wiping down a kitchen, wrapping food, drying dishes, and being speaking truth when asked my thoughts by a stranger, I walked out with a foil cake pan filled with 2 Big Gulps of gumbo and beef soup, along 2 pieces of lemon cake.
And 8 pieces of chocolate cake to share.
All because I stayed to help someone who could have done everything on her own and didn't really need me. She even asked if I didn't have some place to go at one point, and something else to do.
Nope, I said. I've got no plans tonight, other than to enjoy sharing some cake.
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