The search for expression in the express lane
The line was long. For some reason the store was overly warm and humid. It was just a few days before Christmas, and my arms were starting to ache under the weight of the full wicker basket I was holding.
I’d picked up some holiday gifts for my nearest and dearest, and now I was wondering if this was such a good idea. I turned around and the man behind me, growing frustrated, said, “Holy Christmas!”
In fact, it seemed all the folks waiting in the excruciatingly long line behind me were looking grumpy. I feared I may be joining their ranks any minute.
The grumblings started. A woman behind me wondered aloud, “Where is the manager?” The gal next to her was scowling, shook her head and said, “Uh-huh. This is ridiculous.” I saw eye-rolling. I sensed a mob mentality was starting to take over.
The customer at the front of the line was elderly. She was putting her purchases on the counter one…item…at…a…time. And you could tell the cashier was doing her best to be patient. My focus was starting to dull, my arms hurt, and dear Buddha that nearby Snickers looked good.
No, no. Patience. I heard that little voice in my head. Or was I starting to hear voices brought on by hunger and fatigue? The guy behind me was now groaning audibly, loud enough for the rest of us to hear. (Why do we think this helps?) The gal running the cash register heard him, too, and looked up with an apologetic smile.
I saw her smile and thought, good grief…such a First World problem! The checkout line at my favorite, groovy, Chattanooga gift store was taking too long. Get a grip, I said to myself. Just breathe. Go to your happy place. Okay, now I could feel myself settling down, numb arms and all.
Then it was my turn.
Her name tag said “Darlene”. I’ve seen her at this store several times, and we always take a minute to exchange pleasantries. Darlene is probably 70-ish or older, has a stooped posture and some trouble walking. I doubt her first choice was to be standing on her feet all day trying to please hordes of holiday shoppers.
She struck me as a real Southern woman: big, teased hair, serious bling and always a kind word for her customers: “Hey sweetie, how you doin’ today?” or “Y’all have a good one now!”
My guess was that it hadn’t been an easy life for Darlene. She had one of those faces that shows, beneath the southern sweetness, her close acquaintance with suffering and perseverance. A true steel magnolia was my impression.
Finally, finally, it was my turn. We had only a few minutes to chat, as clearly the natives were growing restless.
Here’s how my brief conversation with Darlene went:
“Hey honey!”
“Hey Darlene. You hanging in there?”
“Best I can. But sugar, it ain’t easy.”
“Yeah, I understand,” I said with a glance over my shoulder.
“You ready for Christmas?” she asked.
“Just about. How about you?”
There was a pause.
“I’m not doing much this year.”
“Oh, keeping it simple?”
“Well,” and here her voice dropped to a whisper. I leaned in closer. “My daughter recently attempted suicide. She’s at the hospital, and I don’t know what to do.”
She looked at me with clear but pained blue eyes and reached for my hand. All I could do right then was be as fully present with her as possible.
“I’m so sorry, Darlene.”
“Thank you, honey,” she said as a tear began running down her cheek.
“Darlene, all you can do is be there for her and if you need help, please ask for it.”
Her smile was warm. “I appreciate that advice, honey. I really do.”
And then the moment passed. Darlene had no choice but to dry her eyes and move on to the next customer.
I was starkly reminded how we cannot know the pain, the grief others carry. Do we go about our days with impatience and hostility? Or can we live, regardless of the effort required, with a commitment to be present for each other? I’d suggest this calls upon our better selves. You may recall Michelle Obama saying, “When they go low, we go high.”
We stand at the doorway to a new year, a new decade. If anything about our connection with each other is to improve, then we know, deep in our hearts, where that connection must begin.
Until next time: “We have art so that we shall not die of reality.” ~ Nietzsche
Rick Pimental-Habib, Ph.D., is a psychotherapist, author, minister, and educator in private practice in Chattanooga. Contact him at DrRPH.com, visit his wellness center at WellNestChattanooga.com