I had hand surgery last Wednesday, nine days ago, and as you might expect, it was not particularly pleasant. I elected surgery under local anesthesia, so to calm my nerves, the doctor prescribed two Valium an hour before the operation. I took them and felt like a puddle, amorphous and spreading in the surgical chair, and so that I could hear nothing doctorly, I popped in headphones and listened to music. Although I have a playlist for everything, I had no playlist for hand surgery, but I now have a recommendation: country music. For when activated, my iPhone shuffled immediately to “Friends in Low Places” and then “Family Tradition” and then “You Never Even Called Me by My Name” and then “Folsom Prison Blues.” And so on. There was nothing artificial about that intelligence, for when one hears of death and drunkenness and longing and prisons — all of the things that populate rock bottom — exactly how bad can hand surgery under the influence of a nerve block and Valium really be? When the doctor finished and gently placed enormous silver splints on the two affected fingers on my right hand, I pulled out my earphones and sang, “Metal-fing-uh!” just like the James Bond theme, and I said, “No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!” And we all laughed.

I quit laughing a few hours later when everything wore off and the pain set in, and for the next few days, I adorned the couch, taking Vicodin, sleeping fitfully, and giving full reign to every ounce of grouchiness I could muster — which was, by anyone’s account, an impressive measure. My mother called on Saturday, and I was rude to her, and that fact shamed me. So I asked Chris to help me put on my prettiest dress, and the two of us went to the grocery store for one of those strange dates that married people have. Thanks to the splints (which really did not match my prettiest dress), everyone asked me what happened, and I snarled, “I am getting old.” It was a true answer, and honestly why I needed the surgery: The doctor removed some cysts caused by arthritis.

The woman behind me in line focused not on my splints, but on my dress. She liked it, she said, and she liked my shoes and my glasses and especially my spirit. And still a little grouchy, I told her that it had taken me almost 48 years to grow into my spirit, but that I was coming to terms with it. She replied that she was 74, that she was still growing into her spirit, too, and that things were only beginning for me. Then she laughed and hugged me.

I cannot tell you how much that helped. I started thinking of my hand surgery as “starter surgery,” a painful but small step toward even greater physical decline. This was nothing! Just wait until joints failed. Just wait for the days of big scars and big scares. Just wait. I quit whining and started being kind again and moderated all of my activity with this mantra: Left hand help the right hand. And for the last five days, I have gotten by, and I have gotten better.

But the left hand cannot help the right hand drive a stick shift. That was a problem, for the car my son and I drove to Athens yesterday had a manual transmission. I was in the passenger seat, and it was my son’s drive, and he charted an unfamiliar course that can only be described as a long-cut. (I saw places in Georgia that I had never seen before — that’s saying something — and I let him be entirely in charge — and that’s saying something, too.) He starts college at my alma mater in July, and we were coming up for cheerleading tryouts, and our trip has involved a few hours of tryouts and a lot of time together.

On the drive and on our walks through campus, I have felt like I was passing a baton. As a former high school cheerleader, I reminded him to yell from the diaphragm. He now knows all of the best places to eat 30 years ago. I pointed out buildings and activities, new additions and landscaping, dorms and opportunities. I made him look at foreign study brochures. I urged him to do well and to do good. I encouraged him to do things that made him interesting. I told him of my mistakes and my regrets. All to this end: Here is something I love. It now belongs to you.

That something was not just the college: It was being young. The uncertainty, the carelessness. The possibilities. The many paths. The anxieties. The pressure. Even with the occasional starter surgery and all, it is nice to know the value of things that comes with the years, the steadiness and the relief. This trip has had us discussing tragedies (mercifully) external to us — the death of four college students in a car accident, the suicide of a friend of a friend two days ago — and while I tell my son to embrace challenge, not to be afraid, to live every day fully, I am not certain that he really knows what I mean. Compared to the 74 year-old woman in the grocery store line, I probably don’t have such a great idea of it, either.

But I am trying. I shooed him off late this morning — what 18 year-old boy wants to walk around a college campus with his mother? — and with his backpack on, he looked like he belonged. (Ever kind-hearted, he told me that I looked like I belonged too, that I could pass for a professor.) Alone, in broad daylight, at lunch, I ate a meal that made me grateful to be alive: mussels, fries, and a nice glass of Cote du Rhone. I sat at the table eating slowly and thinking about the meaning of life, an endeavor greatly aided by the slightly decadent food and the slightly dissolute glass of wine. With no dessert, for even age requires its sacrifices, I walked into a beautiful April afternoon and found a spot in the shade.

And there you could find me, on a park bench near a fountain, smack dab in the middle of one of my favorite places on earth, reading a book. All of this youth swirled around me — plans for graduation, lovers’ quarrels, calls home for money, heavy backpacks, non-arthritic hands. So much beauty, so much time, so few scars, so little experience. I finished my book, all the way to its unsatisfying end, and I swear I heard something ask, What do you need? What do you need? Nothing, I whispered. Absolutely nothing at all. I closed my book, heard the impressive crack of my knees as I stood, and walked through that familiar place, hoping to catch up with my son.

ALC

My favorite black skirt is knee-length and Italian — and thus, dangerous.  “Dangerous” may conjure visions of heedless pursuits involving Vespas and Alfa Romeos, fine glasses of Chianti and pasta, turquoise seas and dark-haired men. But no. When I say that the skirt is dangerous, I am referring to the zipper that runs entirely down the back, bisecting the skirt in two, with a tab to unzip it from the top and a tab to unzip it from the bottom. On one hand: The zipper gives the skirt a terrific, sleek fit. On the other hand: The zipper has introduced an entirely new way of walking — perhaps an Italian way of walking — into my life. One long, quick, American stride, and the joke is on me: The bottom tab shoots up and unzips the skirt. So the skirt demands mincing and mindful steps, leaving me constantly on red alert to perform a quick and seamless backward bend to tug down on the upward-creeping zipper.

I tell you this about my favorite black skirt so that you can understand exactly what happened last week. My daughter needed to run a few errands, wanted a snack, and invited me to accompany her as chauffeur and financier. I jumped at this arrangement; I am willing to offer money, food, and driving in exchange for her time. So while wearing this skirt on our Wednesday outing, I passed a store, where I saw something I had to try on. It was pink, and it had polka dots, and like a raccoon and shiny objects, it exerted an irresistible lure.

I used to think that that whole-raccoon-and-shiny-objects thing was overstated until I went on vacation with my sister a few years ago. We stayed at a nice resort, and when dinnertime rolled around that first balmy night, we noticed plenty of seats outside, in prime areas overlooking the bay. We could not believe our good luck. Within moments, it became clear that the resort had a raccoon infestation. But it was a resort, and it wanted to be fancy, so it set the outdoor tables with silver water pitchers. The glint of the pitchers attracted the raccoons, and as terrified diners sat at beautifully set tables, the little bandits would come out of nowhere, barreling toward the water pitchers. Only one waiter was brave enough to risk rabies. With broom in hand, he would shoo the creatures off, a tactic that was successful for maybe three seconds. We ate inside for the remainder of the week, as did everyone who had been at the resort for more than a single night.

But on Wednesday, there was no waiter, and there was no broom, and I could withstand the eye-rolling of my 16 year-old daughter when I promised to try on only one thing. It was almost not a lie — I tried on three things, none of which worked — and then I put my own things back on. That’s where it got dicey: I zipped my shirt into the back zipper of my skirt.

I will hand it to Italian zippers: They are unbelievably tenacious. So I struggled awhile, and I struggled some more, and while I could I rip my shirt (which I did several times), I could not free my shirt from the zipper. At some point, a light bulb shined over my head: I could simply unzip the zipper from the hem up and remove my shirt from the top zipper tab. As I mentally applauded my own unbelievable tenacity, I zipped the bottom zipper into my underwear.

I have told a few people this story, and they have all had a single question: How does one zip a zipper into her underwear?

Talent, I suppose.

I was trapped in a small dressing room with terrible lighting pondering my predicament. I wish I could say I had a major revelation, but no, that was not the case. I thought about things like vanity sizing. (Vanity sizing is clearly one of the things that makes America great, for as a skirt travels from Italy to the states, it magically shrinks from a size 44 to a size 40 in France to a size 12 in the UK to a size 8 in the states.) I thought about how this would end. (Would the skirt survive? Would I simply wrap something around me and hope that Chris, the very master of patience, could untangle me?)  With the back zipper of my skirt cannibalizing my other garments, I wondered why this store had invested in perhaps the worst dressing room lighting ever. And I realized that while I typically enjoyed most interactions with strangers, beckoning to a sales clerk for help in this situation would not be one of them. So I took a deep breath, cursed for good measure, tugged mightily, somehow liberated all of the fabric impeding the zipper, and with mincing and mindful steps, strolled out of the dressing room like nothing had happened.

The entire way home, I wondered if I could survive and thrive in a zipper-free life. Sure, it would be a big commitment, rendering a giant swath of my closet unwearable: All of my pants, most of my skirts and dresses, a few shirts and jackets, about half of my purses. But the Amish did it.  As I pulled into the drive and walked to the front door, I noticed that the mail carrier had left a box. It was a butter churn. After thinking about the Amish, it surely was a sign. (It actually was a very late birthday gift to my husband from his mother.) And I thought about a parallel life for myself, a life free of zippers and adornment, simple and plain, full of homemade butter, and I laughed until I cried.

* * * * *

I furiously wrote this last night in the hour before dinner, trying hard to cram one more thing into my day. I hit “publish” and sent the essay out into the world before I lost my courage. I stewed about it, for I felt like there was something I missed. Then I remembered showing this picture to a friend a few weeks ago. It is a pansy blooming in a crack in a parking lot:

”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s a God wink.” I had not heard the term before, and I am not sure of exactly what it means, but I think of it as a strange coincidence, an unexpected thing of beauty, a moment of serendipity. They are all around. You just have to have the right perspective. A chartreuse luna month on a fence post. Lizards keeping me under surveillance in the garden. A dime on the ground. The fleeting sight of an owl flying overhead at night. A dog’s smile. Even a raccoon infestation at a posh resort.

I was about to write that it had been a busy week, but that is not particularly true. Yes, it was busy, but all weeks seem busy. There is work, and there are teenagers, and there is a marriage, and there is an old house, and there are bills, and there is an ancient dog. There I was, In the midst of everything. As I stood in the dressing room Wednesday, I had those thoughts that I have already told you about, but I had a few more. That I had my impatience to blame for the very hungry zipper. That I should have listened to my daughter when she said to keep walking. That I felt terrible that she was wandering aimlessly through the aisles as I engaged in an epic battle of metal teeth versus fabric.

But this is also true: I really enjoyed the laugh. It is so easy to take one’s self so seriously, only to be confronted with a completely absurd situation. Exactly how often does one zip a zipper into her underwear, ponder the merits of becoming Amish, and arrive to find a butter churn on her doorstep? Not often, no, and perhaps not often enough.

ALC

My children had last Monday, the day after Easter, off from school, so they came downtown and bummed lunch off of Chris and me. The day was lovely, and the children were lovelier, so I told them I would leave work and spend the rest of the afternoon with them. As we were riding home together, they asked me what I wanted to do, and I told them that I would like to garden. To my delight, they said that they would be happy to help, so the children, my daughter’s friend, and I puttered in the yard. We weeded and planted, pruned and dug, swept and raked. After a few hours, my daughter and her friend walked to a nearby bakery and bought some cannoli, and the four of us feasted. I left for dance class, and came back, and we all agreed to eat outside, and after the table had been set, I grabbed my camera phone and snapped this picture in the waning light of day:

The picture surprised me. Sure, I could identify the yard — it was clearly mine, I recognized the table, the hot tub, the lights, the birdhouses — yet it did not seem like my yard. As the #1 tender of the back 40, I walk out the back door and see the weeds, the unfinished pergola, the landscaping bags that need to be dragged to the curb. But for a split second, this image allowed me to see the yard as others may see it: inviting, lush, sumptuous, cozy.  I could not believe that it was mine.

I suppose that I should tell you now exactly what happened last Monday since it had a fair hand in driving me home. I have a friend, X, who lives miles away and whom I rarely see. The distance hardly matters: On the rare occasions I see her, it takes all of 10 seconds to reconnect and to resume. (No doubt you know what I mean. There are friends, and then there are friends, and X falls squarely in the friends camp.) A few weeks ago, I had gotten wind that X’s long-time partner, Y, had died. Y was handsome and funny, smart and well-educated — just the type of man that my friend X deserved. He made her happy, which X also deserved.

I never know what to say when people die. I used to try hard to write something meaningful and poignant, something memorable, but as I get older and write more of these notes, I have simply given up, for what is there to say? Grief is so personal, and death is sometimes so senseless, and I find myself writing and deleting, only to start all over again to no avail. So with X, I settled on telling her that I loved her dearly, that a plane or a car could easily carry me to her door, and that I had no idea of what to say other than that. I sent this to X, and I hoped that this would be enough.

X finally responded last Monday by forwarding me something that someone else wrote. Make sure you are sitting down and centered, she said. So I sat and took a deep breath and read an account of what she told a stranger at an Easter gathering the day before: She talked about Y’s death. Y committed suicide. As I read the details, I was inordinately grateful to this stranger who told me a story that was simply too painful for X to tell me. I read the message only once, and I wrote something that I don’t even remember, and I sought comfort in my children. Which took us out to the garden, and with dirt under my fingernails, I tried to process it all.

I have suffered from depression — I think that every thinking person has — and as I dug up clover and pulled out dollar weed, I was so very grateful to be happy and so very sad for X. When I looked at that picture of the yard, the one that I have shown you, it struck me that life presents such a beautiful garden and that sometimes, by circumstance or by virtue of a terribly unpredictable chemical imbalance, all one can see are the weeds. Having seen enough weeds myself, I decided to honor Y’s memory by paying attention to kindness and to beauty.

I will tell you only two stories of things that have happened in the seven days after I read about Y, although I could tell you many more. Chris and I were in the produce section of Publix this weekend when I saw a woman with two small boys, perhaps ages 2 and 4, in a race car buggy. She was talking to a muscled, handsome man about her husband, who was gone. (There are many soldiers in town — she struck me as a military wife, he struck me as a soldier — and I was not certain what the extent of “gone” was, whether deployed or dead.) As the woman spoke to the man, he picked up the boys, one at a time, and enveloped each in a giant bear hug. The boys squealed with delight, clearly enjoying a hug like the hugs that they had received from their father. He had all the time in the world, it seemed, and after tending to both boys, he embraced their mother and turned to look at avocados. By the bananas, the mother asked the boys, “What’s your father’s name?” As their cart rolled off,the older boy shouted, “Bye, Ben!,” and the man waved. And as I plucked a bouquet of hydrangea from the floral section, I heard the older boy ask his mother, “Ben is a very good boy, isn’t he?”

A few nights later, Chris and I saw another show in the Savannah Music Festival: Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. (She is terrific, and the Dap Kings are too, and if you love funk and soul and R & B, you should take a listen.) Sharon will be 60 on my daughter’s birthday in May, and she has been battling pancreatic cancer. She mentioned this to tell us why she needed a break every so often and why she was so happy to be performing for us that night. She was so alive, and so energetic, and danced so much — for anyone, much less an almost 60 year-old woman who had just changed cancer medication.

After telling us that she loved to dance, she asked the ladies to join her on stage. So the woman behind me tapped my shoulder and said, “Let’s go.” And from the first row of the balcony, grasping the hand of a stranger in the second row, I ran downstairs. We pushed through the throngs and crawled up on a rail and leapt onto the stage.  I waved to Chris and forgot the crowd and started dancing lights out. The music reminded me of the radio station that I listened to in my room as a child in Moultrie — a station from Opelika, Alabama, where the DJ called himself the Opelika Soul-Psycher, a man who was coming at you with 100,000 watts of soul power. There I was, happy, dancing, feeling both younger and older and altogether alive, enjoying the moment and hoping that it would not end.

So here we are, good people. We live in these beautiful gardens with plenty of weeds. But we have people we love who will help us tend them. We have strangers who will step in to fill a void, who will listen. We have people who will inspire us with their tenacity and perseverance, their talent, their enthusiasm. We have others who will give us a nudge, who will say, “let’s go.” We have moments that will remind us of the past. We have moments that will make us look to the future. We have the present. We have each other.

What else is there to say, other than I love you dearly? I suppose this. Say a little prayer, have a moment of silence, send good thoughts, transmit healing energy — however you say it — for X to find peace, and to honor the memory of Y. Search for beauty. It is there. Ask for help if the weeds overwhelm you. Let yourself go. And live. Live loudly. Live boldly. Live like this is it. Live. Live. Live.

ALC