Today I'm vacuuming -- first time in weeks. It brings me to tears. If I hadn't set out on the mindless chore, I might have forgotten Mimi, the woman I met yesterday when I told stories at Judson Park. Little kids and their moms sat on the floor, the elderly occupied couches and wheelchairs. Teddy and Kathleen could not be sure if my puppets were as intriguing as the ant colony traversing the carpet. The ants definitely got the staff's attention. Judson is a meticulously clean facility and proud of it.
While the young ones passed the cookies, I greeted the elders. That's when I met Mimi who looked as though, were she more agile, she would rather be pruning begonias. So I didn't expect her eyes, swimming behind thick glasses, to widen and shine into mine. 'So glad you could be here,' said Mimi as she must have said hundreds of times in her life, and just as true. Of course, she reminded me of my mom, who exchanged her wheelchair for wings over a year ago. The kind, quiet woman with a gentle hand in mine; I couldn't cry for Jane in the middle of the day room, though I'm sure Mimi would have understood. But here I stand the day after, wand in hand, poking at blurred lace and faded sills.
I bring this up because it's in vogue to debunk the routine. Creativity is hip, career trajectory is cool, networking on all fronts, now that's hot. Oh, really? Define exotic: excitingly different. Define different. Elaborate on exciting.
Drummer Bobby Sanabria grew up in the South Bronx. When Maestro Tito Puente showed up at Bobby's housing project with his Latin Jazz, the boy had an epiphany: here's how I will spend my life. He travels the planet, making music. Exotic? Excitingly different? Any musician will tell you, to be good enough to globe trot your music, you practice. A lot.
I have a theory. Routine's not the demon. The real challenger is choice. Every minute brings a slew of possibilities. Routine is just a choice you make to organize your day into a reasonable subset of choices lest you go mad. Kids and the elderly often have choices made for them. And we, the middle dwellers, do the best we can, sculpting our flutes from the tree of life.
So I wave my wand, make a choice, my epiphany c/o Mimi and Jane: to play the exotic instrument of graciousness every day. If I do end up being tended by strangers, as many of us shall, I plan to be so practiced in this skill that it never leaves me.
So glad you could be here. May I pour you some tea?
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