Grace(Land)

I came home from work today, and like most days, I went immediately to the closet and kicked my shoes inside.  I went into my bedroom and grabbed a loose, ratty skirt and faded tank top.  I went to the bathroom and stripped myself of the dress and panty hose that I had been bound to since 6 o’clock this morning.  I changed my cloths and washed my face. I looked at myself in the mirror as I dried my face and was convinced that I looked older than I did yesterday.  Trying not to think too much about my rapid and premature aging, I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.  Then I headed to the back yard to sit in silence and watch the North Coast sky does what it does this time of year.   

As I watched the gray sky roll in with conviction, I saw the bright blue overhead and the hole on the horizon that the pink sunset screamed out of, I thought about all the life that had happened in the last 24 hours.  I looked down at my feet and saw something that concerned me:  my ankles were swollen.  Bigger and angrier than I had seen them in a long time.  I generally don’t think too much about that.  Swollen feet are an occupational hazard of spending 60 hours a week in high heels.  I’ve accepted it.  But as I reached down to rub the product of my vanity, my mind took me to a place I didn’t know was important.  I flashed back to just before lunch this morning.  I was in my office, back to the door, when a heard a knock, knock, knocking on it.  It kind of threw me off a little.  Nobody knocks on our door.  It’s open, and usually people walk right in, because they need something from one of us.  And they expect us to produce it for them right now.  Right. Fucking. Now.  In my office, we always joke about those people.  We always say that when people walk in, they say “Hey you.  You with the vagina.  Fix my shit.  Now.”  Of course, I plan to  discuss that one day.  But for now, we will stick to the knocking.

So, when I heard the wrapping on the door jamb, I turned around and saw a young man with a medical record in his hand.  That shouldn’t be surprising.  Medical records are what I do.  But what surprised me was that I recognized him as a student.  And not just any student.  An Independent Duty Health Services Technician student.  They work in the clinic at the end of their extensive training.  I looked at him, with his creepy Movember, panel van, free candy ‘stache and said “Come in, Sweetie.”  He did, with a little trepidation.  He asked me:  “Is your first name Angela?”  I confirmed.  He looked relieved and sat down and said “Good.  So you must be Ms. Angela?”  I guess so.  Sounds right, anyway.  Then he said, “I was just looking at this record and this person transferred a month or so ago.  I called the new unit to confirm and I saw that the dental exam was updated online, but it’s not in the record.”  I know.  I know.  Those are a lot words that don’t mean much to anyone, except for me and this kid and the military member with horrifying fears of dentists.  But essentially, what Movember was saying was “Can I find the answers?  Can I help you?” I said “Thank you sweetie, leave the record on my desk.  I’ve got to go to a meeting.”  And as I walked down the hill I wondered if that kid understood that with his simple gestures of kindness he gave me grace.

Then, as quickly as Movember left, I found myself late for a meeting.  When I returned, another knock came from the door behind me. This time I looked up and saw a very familiar face, also with a hideous mustache.  The first thing I thought was “how come such magnificent people insist make me feel so uncomfortable with hideous facial hair?”” Despite the unsightly upper lip, I told him “COME IN HERE!!!”  “Do you have any Kleenex?”  He asked.  I said “Have a sit, babe.”  Then, I threw a box of tissue at him.  We talked for a while about the superficial stuff. We talked about the cold and the snot and the bullshit.  After that, we talked about real shit. We talked about our children and our hopes and the way life can be mean sometimes.  We talked about that for quite a while.  And as he walked out of my office I wondered if he knew that his honesty and the trust he had in me gave me grace.  

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Tonight, as I sat there rubbing my tender ankles, questioning the colors of the sky, I also wondered about why people are the way they are.  I wondered why people trust me.  I wondered why people want to help me.  I wondered why I have been so graced. Then, I head Paul Simon on the radio.  Even though I had heard Paul Simon sing Graceland many times, both recorded and live, Graceland suddenly resonated with me like it never had before. 

“She comes back to tell me she’s gone.  As if I didn’t know that.  As if I didn’t know my own bed…Loosing love is like a window to your heart, everybody sees you’re blown apart.  Everybody feels the wind blow.”  But do we all understand that?  Do we all go to places to feel we are safe when our lives are falling apart?  Do we take our love and kindness to people who need grace the most?  How do we know where we can find grace or share our grace with others?

I think we are all living to give and receive grace.  I think we are all human trampolines.  I believe that when we are bouncing, falling, flying in turmoil.    And the only time or place we can calm the turbulence is in a state of grace.  That’s Graceland. 

-Inner Peas