Pause

I’m tense.

I write. I study writing. I go outside; rinse, repeat. I stare at the screen. I take notes. I try to think.

A yellow ladybug lands on my screen.

She clambers over my keyboard. She strolls across my hands. She retracts her legs, then extends her right feet first. Her shell lifts assymetrically as she prepares to move. She spends minutes on the underside of my wrist while I study some more. She’s in my palm as I pick up dinner supplies. She lets me shield her from the sun and breeze.

We spend an hour and a half together.

I don’t need to write. I don’t need to think. My job is to notice.

I breathe. I watch. I smile.

I’m happy.

Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Sometimes, in the midst of a perfect moment, it hits us

Once in a while, A and I are doing something totally mundane.

Then, it happens.

Maybe we’re eating. Maybe we’re talking with loved ones. Maybe we’re gazing at the view.

The scene changes.

Maybe something goes flying and lands in an odd way. Maybe someone says something unexpectedly funny. Maybe we reach peak sunset.

We look at each other. Our eyes say,

I’m seeing this. Are you seeing this? Because this is silly/incredible/beautiful/hilarious.* Thank goodness someone else is here with me to bear witness to just how silly/incredible/beautiful/hilarious this is.

We smile internally. We acknowledge the moment and each other.

Then, the unspoken dialogue shifts.

Our eyes brim.

One of us expresses our joint thoughts in words:

“We are so lucky.”

Thank goodness we got to live this moment together. To experience this day.

*Sometimes, it’s all four.

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Rain: A devotion

Written on Valentine's Day

Parked in a mini-flood, my right tires submerged to the hubcaps

I zip up my jacket

pull up my hood

and turn off the car

Left, right, left

I check for cars

open the door

leave the car

close the door

check for cars

but no one’s on this road in the rain

and cross to the less flooded side of the street

The rain patters on my jacket

the sound soothing

and I feel

Joy

I love the rain

How it feeds the grass, which greens almost upon contact with the water

How some people slow down in the rain

because they’re dressed for it

so they don’t mind

How they pause before jumping the streams that flank the roads

I love the impact of splashing in the rain

I love giving in to the rain

when my arms

my knees

my face

are wet

It feels like permission to take time

to enjoy

the cooler air

the reprieve from incessant sun

(do I sound like I’m complaining?

I’m not complaining)

to be a child

to explore the water

how it drips off of rooftops

slides down windows

drips into streams

and

flows down the street

or sits

collecting drops

a pool for enterprising rodents

the utter delight of splashing in the water

remembering that you don’t have to sidestep the puddles

especially if you have boots

you can go straight in

wade, slowly

jump

stomp

splash

kick

There’s a happy medium with rain

enough to help the plants grow and green

but not enough to wash away trees and homes

and as long as we’re there

where rain is a nuisance for other people but not a danger

(except for those idiots who speed and don’t use their headlights

but you can’t blame the rain for stupidity)

as long as the rain cooperates

I will remember that, like the sun, it is life

and childhood

and delight

I will not take it for granted

I will embrace it

I will revel in it

Lest I forget

and its absence remind me

just how precious it is.

Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Which person would you rather talk to?

One week last fall, I had two polar opposite customer service-type experiences.

I went to a doctor at a reputable center—a specialist I was referred to with a specific but not urgent problem—and I spoke with someone in the collections department at the IRS about requesting penalty forgiveness.

One was kind, respectful, and caring enough to make sure I understood exactly what had happened, what would happen, and what I should do. He empathized. He was relaxed, spoke with a sense of humor, and gave me a clear understanding of how this phase in the process works.

The other was a doctor.

The doctor did the minimum possible and after that shrugged me off, answered my questions obscurely and in brief, and tried to refer me back to the person who’d sent me his way. I resisted—I’d put a lot of time into this already, and thought perhaps there was a legitimate reason I was sent his way in the first place. And when, after repeated questions on my part, I finally understood something, he gave me a condescending, “Oh, you’re smart.”

(I think you know that this is not the rule. I’ve been to wonderful doctors. And I’ve spoken to IRS representatives who don’t know what they’re talking about. And I’ve come across people who were neither wonderful nor horrible but had the self-awareness and honesty to respond well when probed for more.

Here’s one story I like that illustrates the last of these:

My mother, years ago, had strange long-standing symptoms that were eventually diagnosed as hypoglycemia. Years before she was finally diagnosed, she had some tests done. The doctor said: “It’s nothing.” My mother (and here you’ll understand where I come from): “If it’s nothing, what is it?” The doctor: “If it’s nothing, then we don’t know.”)

But I think this goes to show that anyone, in any position, however theoretically unpleasant (I repeat: IRS collections) can be lovely to work with. To interact with. And our expectations are so, so low, that if you simply care enough to understand where your customer is coming from and to help her get where she wants to go—you stand out. You’re memorable in the best possible way. And we are ever grateful.

For having called the IRS.

Send me emails like this, Ophira!