Don’t be like a bee

Dear reader,

I pride myself in writing original material for my Heart Matters Blog. But last week, I received a stellar piece of writing in an email. I laughed, cried and found more clarity after reading it than I’ve felt in, well, about two years.

With apologies to author Anne Lamott, who turns 68 on Sunday, here’s my slightly revised/cribbed version of her piece:

I am going to be 62 in three days, if I live that long. I’m optimistic. Mostly.

God, what a world. What a heartbreaking, terrifying freak show. It is completely ruining my birthday plans. I was going to celebrate how age and the grace of myopia have given me the perspective that almost everything sorts itself out in the end.

That good will and decency and charity and love always eventually conspire to bring light into the darkest corners. That the crucifixion looked like a big win for the Romans.

But turning 62 means you weren’t born yesterday. Turning 62 means you’ve seen what you’ve seen — Ukraine, Sandy Hook, the pandemic … Don’t Say Gay laws. By 62, you have seen dear friends die, ravaged by cancer or some equally horrific disease, children’s lives cut short and other unspeakable losses.

The November midterm elections are coming up. My mind is slipping. My dog is old. Sigh.

Honestly, sometimes it is all just too much.

And regrettably, by 62, you are not the least bit interested in a vigorous debate on the existence of evil, or worse yet, a pep talk.

So, what does that leave? Glad you asked.

The answer is simple: A few very best friends with whom you can share your truth.

That’s the main thing. The 4-1-1, which also happens to be my birthday,

By 62, you know that the whole system of our lives works because we are not all nuts on the same day. You call someone and tell them that you hate everyone and all of life, and they will be glad you called. Turns out, they felt that way three days ago, and you helped them pull out of it by making them laugh or a cup of tea. Or you took them for a walk. Or to Target.

Also, besides our friends, getting outside and looking up and around changes us. Remember: You can trap bees on the bottom of Mason jars with a bit of honey and without a lid, because they don’t look up. They just walk around bitterly bumping into the glass walls. All they have to do is look up and fly away. Dumb bees.

So we look up. In 62 years, I have never seen a boring sky. I have never felt blasé about the moon, or the stars, or a sunset.

It is a crazy drunken clown college outside our windows now, almost too much beauty and renewal to take in. The world is warming up.

Well, how does us appreciating spring help the people of Ukraine? If we believe in chaos theory, and the butterfly effect, that the flapping of a Monarch’s wings near my home can lead to a weather change in Tokyo, then maybe noticing beauty — flapping our wings with amazement — changes things in ways we cannot begin to imagine.

It means goodness is quantum. Even to help the small world helps. Even prayer, which seems to do nothing but might help. Everything is connected.

But quantum is perhaps a little esoteric in our current condition. (Well, in mine. I’m sure you’re just fine.) I think infinitely less esoteric stuff at 62. Probably best to have both feet on the ground, ogle the daffodils, take a sack of canned goods over to the food pantry, and pick up trash. This helps our insides enormously.

You can trap bees on the bottom of Mason jars with a bit of honey and without a lid, because they don’t look up. They just walk around bitterly bumping into the glass walls. All they have to do is look up and fly away.

So on Monday, April 11, I will celebrate the absolutely astonishing miracle that I, specifically, was even born.

As theologian and novelist Fredrick Buechner wrote, “The grace of God means something like, ‘Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you.’”

I will celebrate that I have shelter and friends and warm socks and feet to put in them, and that God or someone up there has found a way to turn the madness of my life into grace, I’ll shake my head with wonder, which I do more and more as I age, at all the beauty that is left and all that still works after so much has been taken away.

And I will strive to write shorter sentences.

So celebrate with me. Step outside, and let your mouth drop open. Look up. Fly away.

Feed the poor, locally or, if you want to buy me something for my birthday, make a donation to an organization that matters.

My charity of choice is It Gets Better. The It Gets Better Project exists to uplift, empower and connect LGBTQ+ youth around the globe. Visit itgetsbetter.org and see if you agree.

Happy birthday to me.

And thanks for being born. My party would not be the same without you.