Random Acts

It has to have been at least fifty years since I saw Wayne Newton make a guest appearance on I Love Lucy, delivering up a Southern idiom that has resonated ever since: “I feel like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Oh, I hear ya, Wayne. Courtesy of lifelong, near constant, often crippling anxiety, it’s almost never not messy in my head. I’m forever fighting the good fight though, doing the work, exploring new ways to improve the condition bestowed upon me by—if I had to guess—equal measures of nature (addiction and depression run in the family) and (lack of) nurture. My toolbox is full of strategies to cope. I walk many miles every day, consume bales of raw kale on a schedule analogous to Stevie Nicks’s coke intake in the 70’s. I ask for help, journal, sleep eight hours nightly, microdose, take medication as needed—the list goes on.

I’m positive these efforts help and I’d hate to try living with myself without them. But sometimes all the strategies in the world aren’t enough to keep at bay existential crises of considerable proportions. Such was the case in June when, walloped by heaping servings of death, saddled with ongoing ranch challenges and brought down further and further by all the fascist headlines, things got so bad that I found myself dwelling at length upon Camus’ Wikipedia page, trying to psych myself into adopting Absurdism for a stretch to see if that might help. (I actually think it might.)

Then suddenly last Thursday, like an August day in London, the perpetually gray sky of my mind yielded to a burst of bright light. I felt actual joy. A perverse silver lining to uneasily co-existing with my chronic anxiety is that the happy times feel very happy. I never, ever take such emotionally sunny days for granted.

My happiness sprung from a tiny seed, a small random act of kindness. On my way to work at the museum, I stopped at Callahan’s General Store for hay and feed. Callahan’s is a wonder to behold—they pretty much have everything, including a bantam rooster that often marches around the store. Once I paid inside, I drove around back to pick up my order. The old guys that work in the back are usually grumpy, not interested in engaging no matter how cheerfully I greet them and ask how they’re doing. But on this Thursday, I was met by the young man who sometimes loads orders.

”I like that flower in your hair!” he said, very enthusiastically and smiling brightly.

Immediately I felt a big shift inside, a light switching on, his cheerfulness a true gift. “Thanks,” I said and grinned back at him. “The world is so fucked up right now and I’m trying to stay positive.”

(Yes, it's true. My current approach to fighting fascism is to wear flowers in my hair. It’s about all I can muster right now.)

He concurred things are hard, then loaded up four sacks of 12% all-stock livestock pellets and one bale each of coastal and alfalfa hay. As he tossed the second bale from the platform into my truck bed, I thanked him. He smiled again. “Keep on shining!” he shouted.

I thought about him for the rest of the day, how his decision to go the extra mile and be super pleasant filled up my nearly empty cup. He reminded me that I like to be like that, too. I compliment strangers. I wave at babies. I offer to help if I see someone struggling. But, unintentionally, I have drifted from this behavior in these Times of Great Divisiveness. I’m still nice, especially in my role as a docent. But in general I’m more reserved, more suspicious, less into engaging with strangers, lest I inadvertently wind up being on the receiving end of some political commentary that might set me off.

Which made the young man’s sweet words that much more delicious. Inspired, I vowed to follow his lead and ramp up my positivity output. I got a great opportunity that very evening when my friend Erin took me to Esther’s Follies. If you’ve not been, Esther’s is a comedy sketch show that’s been around for a very, very long time. I worked there briefly in the early 90s. Over the course of thirty-three years, I have seen the show literally more times than I can count and I never get sick of it. It is side-splittingly funny. In addition to the sketches, the show features magician Ray Anderson—oh my gosh Ray is remarkable. Every time I see him at work he makes any negativity I’m experiencing disappear quicker than a rabbit in a hat.

Before the show, I was in the loo and these young women began gushing over me. Apparently they had spotted old crone me out on the street and were smitten with my very long gray braids and, yes, that same anti-fascist flower in my hair.¹ I was so tickled at the fuss they made over me that I returned the favor, noting how lovely they looked in their fancy outfits. I asked if it was a special occasion. As it happened, one of them was there to celebrate her 19th birthday with a gaggle of her lady friends.

[Ray Anderson & me after the Esther’s Follies show. He will make your sadness disappear! ]

This exchange, in turn, reminded me of another great bathroom scene from long, long ago. That time I was in a long line in the very regal ladies powder room on the second floor of the Paramount Theatre. There, I ran into a woman who had once taken a dog off my hands. I’d been fostering the tiny trembly thing, trying unsuccessfully to integrate it into my rowdy pack. This woman heeded a social media post I made asking for help. She instantly fell in love with the scruffy pup, named her Possum, and they bonded perfectly. We shared this story with the others waiting in line and before you know it, there we were, a group of strangers hugging each other and getting misty together, all whilst waiting for the toilets. Talk about your endorphin rush.

Anyway, back at Esther’s, it turned out the birthday girl’s group was seated just across the aisle from Erin and me. Noting the stunning footwear encasing the feet of the one sitting nearest to us, we were both so impressed that we went over to thank her for wearing them, which led to a very fun exchange. This bonding of our groups—the crones and the young’uns—lasted throughout the show as Erin and I, old time Esther’s fans, delighted in watching them take it all in for the first time. Oh my goodness they were laughing so hard. So were we. And it felt amazing to so easily connect with strangers, like we used to do so much more easily before the world went to shit.

It was all over so fast, too soon, before dark even. But the boost I got was undeniable and carried over into the next day and the next, providing a lingering levity that has been gravely absent for way too long. It is so very difficult to be buoyant these days. So here’s to all of you out there continuing to keep your chins up and helping the rest of us to do the same. My gratitude knows no bounds.

Have y’all been on the receiving (or giving) end of random acts of kindness? Let’s hear it. I’ll take all the good news I can get.

Keep shining y’all.

JOY AND BEAUTY DEPARTMENT

Made Philly pretzels. Took a bubble bath. The dryer broke, which sucks BUT I was reminded of how much I love hanging clothes on a clothesline. Rosie loves her job!

LAWN MOWER REPORT

Since technically Levon is part of the landscape team, I’m using the Lawn Mower Report to say that he is doing much better. But holy shit it was fecking hell catching him to get that bandage off and, in the end, he had to be sedated again. I don’t know what I would do without the gifts and skills of Dr. T and Ki’era.

NOTES

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UPCOMING WRITING WORKSHOPS

Hyde Park Theatre: June 30, July 7, July 14, July 21 at 43rd and Avenue A. 1:30-3:30.

Forty minutes of writing, then we share out loud. Space is limited. To register please email me. (Hit reply to this newsletter). Suggested donation is $20.

San Marcos Public Library: July 7, 14, 21, 28 10 am - noon. FREE! No registration required. All levels welcome.

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THE NEXT RANCH WRITING DAY is SATURDAY JULY 5th!

We write for 90 minutes and share out loud for 90 minutes. I serve fresh baked pastries and delicious coffee. Suggested donation $20. Space is limited. Register for July here. (It’s free to register.)

1. The flower that has all the youngsters gushing over me is a hair clip made locally, by hand, by my friend Ann Woodall, a wonderful artist and craftswoman.