Skip to main content

Light on my path

Today was a dull and dreary winter day. I stopped at the cafe at my neighborhood health food store for lunch. When I go there, I feel like I'm at Cheers--everyone knows my name. We talk: weather, politics, current events far and wide, and of course, about food and what's good for us. I like everyone who works there. But there is one person there who is especially special, and I always feel that something is missing on the days I go to the "Sunshine" store and she's not there.

I surveyed the store when I walked in: took in the familiar white shelves, beautiful geological display of mineral-art rocks, the bright yellow and white tiles, the blackboard whose ornamental chalk letters told me what healthy dishes were being served today. Everyone was there--except Miss L. My heart sank a little. I was having a bad day, both stressful and distressful. Somehow I knew the day would feel better if I could just have one of my special conversations with Miss L.

A few minutes later, I heard her voice. It was her day off, but she just happened to stop by. In pink. I've never seen a pink sweatshirt look so radiant, but on Miss L. it did indeed. It glowed, making a nice complement to her Swedish-crystal-blue eyes. We talked. And my whole day turned around.

Sometimes we have the good fortune to meet people in ordinary places who are anything but ordinary. Like two shooting stars, we pass each other at the intersections created in those ordinary places, and trade messages of light.

I didn't know it was her day off. She didn't know I would be there for lunch. And yet, our intersecting today felt clothed in sheer certainty. It had to be. Was meant to be. And my day, my mind, my heart all "turned 'round till they came up right."

So, look lively. Tomorrow may be your day to connect with a shooting-star-buddy, or for you to be a light on someone's path. And it will make something--if not everything--turn 'round, till it comes up right.

Text and images, copyright Ysabel de la Rosa, all rights reserved.


BarbeeAnne said…
I think that is why it is always best to smile, look people directly in the eyes, be genuinely cheery and kind to EVERYONE all the just never know who you are going to bring a little light to.

Here's a little known and interesting fact about me. I worked on Beacon Hill in the mid-70's for a time, and often ate lunch with my mother and other co-workers at the Hampshire House (the actual inspiration for Cheers, which was not a bar, and not in the basement but a half story up from the street...that fake Cheers was added way after the show got popular)just down the street from our office. They served the best burgers in town. The place had big overstuffed chairs and low tables (knee-level) that you had to bend over to eat...uncomfortable...but worth the effort for the good food. The Dianne character was based on a real waitress who worked there...I'm not sure which...but, years later, Larry Reily, a man who worked with my mother told me he knew exactly which one. Guess he spent alot more time in there than I did...and paid more attention to the smart, intellegent blonds.
Hey, Anne! Very interesting! I wish I could have known the "real" Cheers spot--and had lunch there with you and your mom! It makes me feel good just thinking about it. Thanks for the history and the insight. Hope all is well with you. I sure miss my madrileño friends.
un abrazo,

Popular posts from this blog

Life without Television, Part 2

I began life without television with relief, which was consistent Monday through Friday. The first few weekends, though, felt awkward, anxious, lonely. When PBS has good programming on Saturday nights, it is extraordinarily good. Father Brown, Phryne Fisher, New Tricks... Extraordinary acting, high production values, and I fantasize about the pudgy, brilliant priest just perhaps having an innocent crush on one of his special parishioners, which would be moi. 

I called a friend one Sunday. "Maybe television helped with my anxiety more than I realized," I said. She told me about her aunt who, after her husband's death, kept the television on in his "man cave" 24/7. He has been gone years now. The television goes on, everlasting, in his absence. I don't blame her. Much of my frequent and prolonged television viewing began with grief.

After my sister died, I would watch almost anything, especially late at night when sleep eluded me. I even watched Convoy with …

Glad to Hear It

This past week, Larry Wilmore and company mentioned Rachel Dolezol again on The Nightly Show. I don't remember who made the comment, but either Wilmore or one of the panelists said, "Did Rachel Dolezol do anything bad? No, she really didn't. Why did we get so uptight about that?" I was glad to hear it. Three cheers for being human.

I looked briefly at what's on Google currently about her and the now much-discussed Shaun White. I intend not to enter any of that fray mentally or verbally. I still maintain that humanity trumps color. We have a long way to go until we can leave our "paint by numbers" mentality behind, but we've made progress. Good changes can come, even in the midst of chaos and controversy. Maybe White and Dolezal will help us see that eventually.

As long as I'm here and continuing on the subject of color, I think I'm not alone in the fact that I don't like being called "white." As for my background, it includes …

Whose day?

Years ago, I made some collages using pages from a desk calendar from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The image that leads this post is one. Inside the hearts and flowers is a picture from the MMA collection of  a Japanese screen made in the 16th century. It is titled Tagasode, which means Whose sleeves?  The title comes from a 10th-century poem:

The fragrance seems even more alluring than the hue, Whose sleeves have brushed past? Or would it be this plum tree blossoming here at home?
Iro yori mo ka koso awaredo omohoyure tagasode fureshi ado no ume zo mo
The word haunts: tagasode. Whose sleeves? The question floats in my mind like a cloud on a still day. The sleeves materialize in my mind's eye. I hear them move through hushed air. I can imagine, though not name, the scent of the person to whom those sleeves belong. It's not unlike smelling the scent of your infant's clothes, or holding the perfume bottle that belonged to your don't need to open it... you know tha…