Junk Cars

Tom Froehlich

The other day I came out of the grocery store to find a business card tucked under my windshield wiper blade. It read, “We Buy Junk Cars, With or Without papers.” I know. The last portion of that really makes you feel the business is on the up and up doesn’t it? But that’s not the point. The point is that prior to the vehicle I currently own, I owned a Saab 9-3 convertible in titanium grey. Although I looked spectacular cruising up and down the California coast in my Saab, it seemed to spend a great deal of time at the Saab Service Center. In fact, I spent $3000.00 on repairs over a period of six weeks in an effort to pass the smog test…and then I totaled it.

I now drive a 1998 Toyota Tercel Blackhawk. It has no grill. No. I don’t know. It came that way. The hood is black primer whereas the rest of the Blackhawk is your standard black gloss finish. This is not factory issued. Again. Don’t know. The best part of the Blackhawk, other than its name, is the fact that in the two years I have owned it I have spent zero dollars on its upkeep other than standard maintenance. She’s not much to look at, but she’s a runner. My point is, our society seems to devalue things as they get older and have lost their sheen. Just like that jackass who put the card under my wiper blade.

The following day I had yet another advertisement waiting on my windshield. It read, “Botox & Fillers Beauty Party-Come join us!” The photo on the card featured a straight up martini with two green olives skewered by a hypodermic needle. Nice. Just what a recovering alcoholic with a busted capillary or two needs to see. I am curious as to why they thought I might possibly be interested in attending such a gathering. Had they been watching from the nearby hedge of bougainvillea? I’m pretty pleased with my appearance for fifty-five, but living in LALA Land you can’t help but feel as if you could use a can of “Spackle” with a putty knife to fill in a few cracks and crevices or maybe a shot or two from a hypodermic needle filled with poisonous neurotoxins, here or there, rendering your face an expressionless line-free mask. Especially after that guy you may or may not have been hitting on calls you, “Sir”. Hey! He was twenty-two at the very least. I swear!! Almost old enough to drive a rental car!!

Is it just me or does it seem as if our society is far too ready to discard things, and this includes people, as soon we show the slightest sign of wear and tear? Is it so wrong to show the signs of having lived a little? Of being passed our first bloom of youth? Perhaps even past the second bloom? I don’t know about you, but I still have a few things to do. Botox and bondo or not!

I once read that back in the day, when an Eskimo became more of a burden than an asset to his family they just perched him out on an ice flow and let him drift away. Just prior to that he had saved his ass by chewing on sealskins to soften them. This was part of the tanning process and a way he could contribute to his tribe.  He gets to do that until his teeth are worn down to nubs and then it’s sayonara. A one-way ticket to the Sub-Zero meat locker on the iceberg express. Frankly, I may punch that ticket before they have me gnawing on seal hides. It’s a personal choice. Say what you will.

On the flip side, the Japanese have a technique for repairing broken pottery developed centuries ago. It’s called Kintsugi. The seams of the broken piece are repaired with a resin filled with gold dust. Rather than trying to hide the flaws in the broken ceramics, craftsmen would highlight them in gold, baring the cracks and scars. The restored piece of pottery is considered even more beautiful than the original.

I am working toward becoming a professional speaker so I can share my words with you not just in the written form, but give you the opportunity to listen to me endlessly yammering on. Is it too late in life for me to make that happen? Sometimes it feels that way. But then, last week I entered a competition in my Toastmasters group. (For those of you who think we just raise glasses of straight up bourbon in a toast, you’re wrong. Remember! I’m a recovering alky!! Toastmasters is a group of people who gather to work on their public speaking skills.) I was competing to determine who would represent our group at the regional competition. I really wanted to win.  I guess I needed to prove to myself that I was good enough. That it wasn’t too late.

I won. I didn’t just win, but there was overwhelming applause and hooting and hollering as I closed. I guess it’s time to start believing I am good enough. Maybe better than good enough. But, what about too late? Do our dreams have an expiration date? I believe that answer to that question is, “No”. You see, one of the people I competed against was my friend Ida Lee. Yup! My friend from this blog post “Ida Lee & Me”, on October 29, 2013. At the age of ninety-three Ida’s philosophy is, “Well, I ain’t dead yet!”.  It wasn’t until Ida was in her sixties that she was cast in the movie, “The Right Stuff”, with Ed Harris, and then in, “Defending Your Life”, with Meryl Streep and Albert Brooks. When she was seventy she was cast as the lead in “Grandma’s House”. When I asked her what part she played she exclaimed, “What the hell part do you think I played!? I’m an old lady! I played Grandma for God’s sake!!”

Evidently, Ida Lee believes it is never too late to realize your dreams and I stand by her on that one. Let someone else chew on the sealskins. I for one have no interest in riding that iceberg anytime soon. I don’t know about you, but I still have a few things to do.

 

There are times in life when dreams seem unrealistic. Even foolish. My mind can get overwhelmed with thoughts of “It’s too late!” or “Aren’t you a little old for that?” or “Shouldn’t you have already arrived by now?” I don’t believe I would have won that contest ten years ago. I wouldn’t have had the courage that allowed me to be truly authentic. To value what I held in my heart, trusting that it would be valued by others as well.  That only comes with life experience and the passing of time. With falling down and getting back up again and salvaging the broken pieces of who we are. It is only now, looking back, that I can recognize that when I put the broken parts of who I am back together, time and time again, that I was filling them with gold.

Too late? Not a chance. I don’t think you can put an expiration date on dreams. Besides, I ain’t dead yet and it’s not over until I say it’s over. And I say, I’m right on fucking time!

I Am Not Alone

Tom Froehlich

It’s a clear, sunny, beautiful southern California day.  It had rained the day before, wiping everything clean. I can smell the cool, salty breeze as I bike along the ocean. I know I should enjoy this. It is something I once longed for when living out the long Wisconsin winters until I moved to Venice seven years ago. But somehow it is not enough.  In it fact almost angers me that I am expected to be fulfilled by this. To not allow myself expectations and a longing of something greater. I am expected to live in the moment rather than that of wanting. Yearning for a great job, financial stability, a life partner, tired of walking life’s path on my own, tugging at my joi de vive’ and pulling me down.  Making this moment less than. Not enough. I know that I know better and this knowledge only succeeds in frustrating me further.  I believe in a higher power and am aware I should be grateful yet ashamedly I am not. 

I do my best to push all thoughts out of my mind.  Biking can be a meditative experience for me if I allow it.  I down shift and push harder praying for something to help me find a shift in my perspective for the day about to unfold as I don’t want to spend it in a state of wanting.  As I negotiate a turn on the path that snakes along Venice beach I see a couple walking.  They are older. Perhaps in their early eighties. He wears a light blue baseball cap, which makes me smile as it reminds me of my father who passed away soon after I moved to California. She wears a straw hat, its visor shielding her eyes from the sun.  She cradles his left arm in her right, covering them both lovingly and protectively with her other hand.  She is obviously the more ambulatory of the two and gently leads her partner forward, supporting him, making his steps more confident.  As I bike passed them I overhear them talking about how beautiful the day is after the previous days rain.  I hear them laugh and I smile. I can feel my body chemistry change. Feel my energy shift.

I imagine the years the couple has spent together. Years necessary to earn that kind of comfort and familiarity. Comfort that allows you to set aside your pride and be cared for. The mutual understanding that many years ago you left behind the me and you of things to become us.  I think of them, hoping one day I will have enough years with someone, to have logged enough time, to rest in that cradle of comfort and familiarity. Alternating back and forth from leading to being led.  But I refuse to allow my thoughts to fall into the forlorn.  I am blessed that too much forlorn bores me and it is one of the tools I have to work my way out of it. 

Instead I choose to think of those people I love or have loved and how they have loved me in return. I think of my best friend who now lives in Arkansas who somehow finds me flawless and is always ready with what she finds an obnoxious laugh, yet brings me nothing but pure and utter joy.  We find one another perfect in spite of our flaws. A mystery, eternally unsolved that adds to our mirth. 

I think of my cousin Lizzie who asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding telling me that she and her fiancé had fought over whose attendant I would be and she won because she was blood. We laughed about how my mom would be afraid I would be wearing a dress and then laughed even harder when my mom later asked Lizzie that very question.  I remember a few years before that when her brother Joey asked me to be in his wedding as well. Being in my late forties and my cousin fifteen years my junior, I felt being a member of a wedding party a bit ridiculous and told him so. He said, “I sure as hell hope you’re not trying to wrangle your way out of this. You are not just my cousin, you are one of my best friends.”  Not just loved, but sought after. What was I to do? I said, “Yes.” 

I think of my older brother hugging me for the first time when our dad died saying, “I am so glad you’re here.”  I remember holding the hug and sharing our pain.  I remember my mom slipping her hand into mine as we walked down the aisle of the church after the memorial service and telling her I would stay as long as she needed me. I remember her telling me she would have to have me teach her how to be single again because she hadn’t done it for over fifty years and I seemed to do it pretty well. And I knew she meant it and knew I would be there for her. 

I remember over twenty years ago on Valentine’s Day telling my parents I had lost my job and was getting a divorce.  They told me to come home so they could take care of me.  Three years later I told them I was gay and they told me I was their son and they would love me no matter what and we would figure things out together.  

I remember ending a relationship with a man I loved more than I thought I could ever love anyone and my dad calling to tell me they may not yet understand what I was going through, but wanted me to know they were there if I needed anything.  I remember breaking down and crying into the phone and sharing my pain.  They listened quietly and began to understand it was the loss of love just like anyone else.  I remember when I first met him and how my stomach would flip when his long blonde lashes flashed across his blue eyes. Those same eyes glistened with tears, his heart racing, the first time he told me how much he loved me.  To this day my breath still catches in my chest at the memory. 

I think of my niece and nephews and how they nicknamed me Uncle T., because I just didn’t seem grown up enough to be Uncle Tom.  I think of when they entered college and how it became just “T.” and they explained to me how I was more like their friend than their uncle and hoped I felt the same way.  I think of my nephew calling me when he broke up with his girl friend looking for advice and comfort.  He asked me if I had ever been in love and I told him about the guy and how amazing it had been while it lasted. He merely responded, “Wow T. that’s awesome you got to feel that way. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” 

I think of a friend leaving a bouquet of flowers at my door when I was going through a particularly difficult time with a note telling me what a wonderful person I am.  Not only did I believe her, but saw what a wonderful person she is as well.

I realized that the time I had spent single was not spent lamenting the aloneness, but rather gathering a wealth of relationships and nurturing those relationships when I otherwise may have been busy with a significant other.  I realized it was not at all as if I was lacking in love, the love was merely different, but of just as great of value and offering as much comfort and joy. With these people I will share my life always and me theirs to the end of our days.  Should I need someone to cradle my arm in the crook of their own while we walk in the sunshine I have many from which to choose.  I realize that I am not alone. I am far from it.

The Mexican Leprechaun

Tom Froehlich

He was a 5’6” Hispanic man with a lost and frantic look in his eyes. Kind of like a squirrel locked in a cage, eyes frantically darting about looking for an exit. The family member who brought him in said he had been living on the streets of San Francisco for seven years and he had no idea what combination of drugs were in his system. Another staff member did the in-take, doing the paperwork and getting him settled into his room. I just kept thinking, “This guy may last a week, but most likely he will be gone by morning. He’s never going to make it.” His name was Peter.

An hour later, I walked into the dining room and Peter was eating dinner by himself. I will admit that it was more out of a sense of duty than compassion that I sat down to join him. No one should eat dinner alone their first night in a rehabilitation facility, right? Caged squirrel or not.

His frantic eyes darted my direction as he looked up from his plate of pasta and said, “I lived on the streets with hookers and dealers and crooks, you know.”

I simply said, “I know,” and offered him a gentle smile.

He continued, “But it wasn’t scary or anything. I mean, I became one of them so I could study them and write their stories with my painting. I even took out my front tooth so I would blend in.” He smiled at me, more to show me the gap where his false tooth had once been, than for any other reason. His smile held no shame, it was more of a “You can accept me or not, this is who I am” kind of smile, with a bit of mischief and mirth thrown in. I couldn’t help but smile in return. With that, his smile broadened and I think it was in that moment I unknowingly made a new friend.

He went on to tell me of the hotel he lived in a down and out part of San Francisco. Of how he was not just a drug addict, but a well-respected artist and writer as well. It had just gotten out of control and he wasn’t sure of the time period. His brain wasn’t working well enough to make that determination.  He told me of how he lived among the homeless. How he quietly observed. Silently watch and listen and finally see inside of them, seeing who they truly are and then tell their story in his paintings. Tell of their trials and challenges, as well as, their joy and happiness. “Because everything on the street isn’t all bad you know. There are some amazing people out there,” said this little brown man.

My thought was, “Probably the only truth I’m hearing is that he lost his front tooth. Maybe sold it for an eight ball of heroin.” But truth or not, it was one hell of a story!

A moment passed as he twirled the few remaining strands of pasta on his plate. And then, as if he had made a decision and wanted to act on it before he changed his mind, his frantic eyes looked at me and he asked, “You want to see one of my paintings?”

I said, “Sure,” figuring I may as well ride this one out and see where it landed. I’m not really sure what I expected. Maybe some sheets of Manila paper with crayoned stick people and cauliflower clouds or psychedelic, schizophrenic swirls of watercolor. He left for a moment, going into his bedroom and returned with a canvas folded into a two-foot square. Walking into the living room he unfurled the canvas that was longer than the seven-foot sofa it rested on. I was speechless and trust me that is a rare occasion. All I could say was, “Oh my God!” It was far from the stick people and cauliflower clouds I had expected. It was as if Pablo Picasso, Edgar Degas and Salvador Dali were all mixed together in a blender and spit out onto a canvas.  It was Egyptian hieroglyphics and Roman bas-relief sculpture and stained glass cathedral windows. It was amazing. As I continued to look along its richly colored and intricately designed length I once again uttered a profound (not!), “Oh my God!!”

“You get it don’t you? I knew you would,” and he flashed me a joyous smile, no less radiant for lack of a tooth and the look in his eyes was no longer frantic. It was simply a look of trust, knowing that you see beauty in what I see.

I smiled in return and said, “Yes, I do. This is amazing.”

He began to walk me through the story told in this eclectic work of art. He told me of the people who walked across the canvas and showed me the hotel in which he lived. Not much talking was really necessary because the canvas easily told the story. That was the beginning of an unexpected friendship.

As time passed Peter’s body rid itself of toxins and more art manifested itself. Everyday I came to work I looked forward to seeing what he had created the night before. He ran through paints and canvas at a rapid pace, but when he ran out of traditional supplies that didn’t stop him. An old discarded spool of wire was spun into mobiles housing Barbie Dolls in cages. A box of old wire hangers meant to be thrown away were transformed into a serpentining Op Art room divider.

No matter what medium Peter used he found the magic in it. He explained to me that you had to let the paint or wire or a piece of junk he had pulled from a dumpster do what it is supposed to do. Not force it into being something it’s not. “You just don’t get street art do you?” he said. “Kind of like life, you know what I mean? It’s kind of like life. You have to accept it for what it is and work with it. Not try to make it something it’s not.”

I thought, “Frankly, Peter I’m beginning to think I didn’t get a lot of things before I met you.” Over time, I began to see things not so much through Peter’s eyes, but through rediscovering my own.

When I told him I had been planning on painting again after many years he just looked at me and said, “You should. I bet your work would be amazing. Spectacular.” He said this based on nothing other than his sense of who I am and I believed him. I believed him, because Peter saw people for who they are. No bull shit. No facade.

One day he said to me, “You know, Mike the cook talks a lot about all of his accomplishments. I think it’s because he really needs a lot of recognition to feel good about himself.” I was shocked because he was spot on. He continued, “And Sean, the house manager, acts frantic all of the time, but I think he just needs people to see how busy he is because he needs to make sure he gets credit for all he does. It’s okay, I don’t judge them. We all need to feel good and all ask for attention in different ways.”

“And you? You could be big scary guy, because you’re like a foot taller than me, but you’re not, because you’re just a big doofus who everybody loves, because you are so kind to everyone.”

“Doofus?!” I questioned, somewhat surprised by his assessment. Surprised mostly by the fact that he was once again, “spot on”. My ego was fleetingly bruised, but I knew it was not said unkindly. I have a very difficult time pulling off cool and sophisticated.

“Yeah, but a lovable one!” he said giving me the grin I had grown to love accompanied by his mischievous laugh. Whether it be oil paints or people, Peter saw it for what it was. Maybe it was that his eyes saw it before his brain was able to reinterpret into something else. Something other than its authentic self. I think we often reinterpret people and things to make them fit more comfortably into our world. Peter was building his world by seeing and accepting things for what they truly are. An authentic world. And I learned from him.

Pointing to the sunset above us, filtered through the clouds, he would say, “Look at that color. It’s almost hot pink.”

And I would add, “Except around the edges, they’re almost peach.”

Peter would continue, “You mean right by that wedge of a cloud that’s almost…”

“…turquoise.” We would finish simultaneously, and laugh out loud.

Peter helped me find the eyes I thought I had lost. The eyes that had become clouded by my reinterpretation of reality. Trying to make it something it is not meant to be.

I went to the art supply store this week and bought paints and brushes and a couple of canvasses.  My easel is coming through the mail.  The best part is I am going to let it be what it is. And I bet it’s going to be spectacular. And the fact that this is all a metaphor for my life has not been lost on me. I get that. I am learning that life does not need to be reinterpreted for it to make sense. Seeing it in all its authenticity and perfect imperfection is where the beauty lies. The place it truly makes sense. No bull shit. No facades.

If the Mexicans had a leprechaun in their folklore it would be Peter. A 5’6” little brown man who taught me to once again see the world, through my own eyes, unfiltered by what I expect it to be. To learn to be comfortable in the uncomfortableness of authenticity. If you are waiting for me to tell you, Peter showed me how to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I will have to tell you he did not. Rather, he has taught me that there is no need to chase happiness to the end of the rainbow. He has taught me that if I am brave enough to see the world in all of it’s beautiful, perfect, imperfection, I will find that my pot of gold is right in front of me.

The Envelope

Tom Froehlich

I awakened this morning and decided my life was far too difficult. Far too difficult for a never-ending list of reasons. A list that I myself created. A list of things that made me want to throw myself in front of the number ten bus.  In the long run, I decided the pain involved in that solution was more than I cared to endure and besides, I may just end up crippled. Always flexible and open to change, I decided I would rather go the homicidal route and grab someone, anyone, I’m not particular, by the scruff of the neck and choke them until dead. Relax. Obviously neither of these scenarios were actually going to happen.

Before I even opened my eyes this morning I had unconsciously made a decision that today was not going to be user-friendly. Sure, you can tell me that I am acting as if the world is out to get me and I will tell you that it in fact it is. And actually, your trying to convince me of my own delusional state leads me to believe that you are a part of this conspiracy. Intellectually, I am fully aware that everyone has bad days and I should just shake it off and get on with it, but I can’t. I simply can’t. I have this psychotic episode in a firm and unshakeable chokehold and I refuse to let it go. Hey! I’m sure even Mother Teresa had days like this. I mean, she had that whole leprously thing to deal with and all. Logic has no part in this. It is simply a self-fulfilling prophecy run wild and I am determined to suck the joy out of today any way I am capable.

For simplicity sake, please allow me to enumerate the things that have me teetering on the brink of insanity.

1. I need to drive in L.A. traffic. This alone is enough to make a recovering alcoholic relapse. In fact, I would rather have open-heart surgery with no anesthetic.

2. Those women who choose to use their baby stroller like a battering ram, as an indicator that they will be crossing the street. In fact, they will use this technique in the grocery store, parking lots, anywhere they feel it is necessary. They seem to have no qualms about risking their beloved newborn child’s well being in an overt display of maternal power. They believe this privileged right of way is due them for simply having given birth.

3. While we’re at it, I would like to mention the resurgence of those annoying signs people have suction cupped to the interior of their vehicles reading “Baby on Board”. Excuse me for just a minute, but as a single adult male, I don’t really care to get critically injured or die of vehicular homicide either. I feel as if I should hang a sign in my car window that reads, “Middle-aged, yet very well-preserved male on board. Please don’t hit me either!”

4. People in the lines at the grocery store, car wash, dentist office, even the library who think I want to hear their lengthy, involved telephone conversation with their girlfriend about the totally super cute shoes they bought at DSW Shoe Warehouse. I don’t care. Really, I don’t. Oh, I totally understand that you have some time to kill while waiting in line like the rest of us, but you don’t hear me chatting away with my buddy about how I totally scored a pair of size fifteens on sale at the Broadway Shoe Warehouse. Mostly because I know my buddy doesn’t give a rat’s ass, very much like I don’t give a rat’s ass about your pumps with the four-inch heel that make you look like you should be working the corner of Hollywood and Vine.

5. I chose to ride my bicycle to the grocery store to get some exercise, fresh air and avoid the frustrations of driving in L.A. traffic. See! I’m trying to be proactive! Unfortunately, the guy in the sporty, white convertible was busy enjoying the fresh air as well when he decided to run the red light while making a left hand turn almost broad-siding me and fulfilling my earlier “throw myself in front of a bus” demise. When his car came to a screeching halt he said, “Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t see you!”

I wanted to respond, “Well buster, I’m sorry too, because I’m 6’3” and 235 pounds and really pretty hard to miss so maybe you should try pulling your head out of your ass!” Hey! He’s driving a car far nicer than my ’98 Toyota Tercel Black Hawk (Isn’t the name “Black Hawk” awesome though!?), which means he has far more money than I do and he is also far younger and looks like one of those guys who never has to work out and has the body of an Abercrombie model. In short? I hate him.

Finally arriving home, I believed beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the world is in fact out to get me. To get final verification on this I decided to check the mail, ready to wrestle with the weekly flyers and bills, reminding me that the money I earn is only mine for a very short period of time.

Instead, I opened the brass door of my mailbox and found resting serenely inside, a lone pale pink envelope. The return address told me it was from a friend in Wisconsin. We met through a mutual friend and have actually only spent time together maybe five times, but have stayed in touch via facebook. A week earlier, she had surprisingly sent me a private facebook message, sharing that she was going through a difficult time in life, full of uncertainties and doubts.

She wrote, “I asked out loud in prayer to give me someone non-judgmental and someone who has the wisdom to hear me and understand.  It was you Tom.  It was your name that popped into my head and I knew I could talk to you.”

You may be asking, “Really?! You?! The guy who hates babies in strollers and girls with new shoes?! The guy who is certain there is a conspiracy out to get him?!” Yes. That is correct. Me! We all have our dark side! Stop judging!!

She went on to say, “Oh my dear sweet Cousin Tom... (I am “Cousin Tom” to many) what helps you to keep your sanity when life feels like your world is slowly falling apart around you?  You have been through so many life-changing moments and honestly you are the only one I can think to turn to. Somehow you have managed to find peace and happiness within yourself.  I need to find that too.”

I was flattered and honored that she would turn to me yet also humbled by my own uncertainty. Our lives seem so radically different. She has a wonderful husband and two beautiful children and I’m just an alcoholic gay man living on the beach in Venice, California who is so pissed off some mornings he wants to throw himself in front of the number ten bus.

Then it dawned on me that we are all just people doing our best trying to get through life and sometimes find ourselves in a dark and lonely place. A place that no matter how hard we try, we can’t seem to climb out of it on our own. I have visited that lonely, dark place. And I have climbed out. I understand.

I responded, “I am flattered and honored that you would think of me. When I feel as if I am totally fucked (eloquent, aren’t I?!), I remind myself that the Universe has a plan greater and grander than I could possibly imagine. And if that is in fact the case, that means that some of these bumps and yes, sometimes huge fucking bumps in the road are necessary to get me to where I need to go. Somehow that gives me peace and a belief that the Universe is not out to get me and that these troubles will in fact pass.

I mean really, isn't it sort of ridiculous to think that all things will go smoothly all of the time? Certainly it would be nice, yet still ridiculous. I do my best not to add drama to challenging circumstances that are simply part of life. It is usually my drama that clouds my mind and gets me in trouble. A guy I once dated said, ‘Tom, I just figure that as long as everyone I love is safe and healthy I can handle the rest, because the rest is just life. What are you going to do? Not live it!?’ Other than that he was kind of a douche bag (Well! He was!!), but I will always be grateful to him for that. Last of all I would like to share with you a quote from my book I hope to publish, ‘I am a Very Spiritual Yet Vulgar Man’.

'It’s an awesome day when I am humbled, as well as, enlightened by the realization that life is not as difficult as I try to make it.'" Peace & Blessings.


Love, Cousin Tom

I opened the pale pink envelope and slipped out the card. The pre-printed message read, “We keep you in our hearts because it is safe there and full of love.” And then in her own hand was written, “Love you Tom! You are an inspiration…yet so real to all of us. Thanks for being you.”

I gazed at her words and felt a smile spread across my face, as the conspiracy against me slowly slipped away. I saw the bigger, grander picture. I saw that it doesn’t matter how annoying L.A. traffic is. It doesn’t matter whether there is a ”Baby on Board” or an angry middle-aged man.

What matters is that we take the time to share our life’s journey with others with the hope it will enrich their own. To give of ourselves with no expectation. To help someone we care about heal and breathe more easily.

And then, every once in while, on a day when we have fallen back into the darkness, we open our mailbox and find a pale pink envelope filled with love and light and realize the healing has come full circle. We are reminded to breathe more easily. And we are reminded that it is when we step outside of ourselves, for even the briefest moment, to help someone else, that we find peace.