“That’s right. Blame it on Zen,” my neighbor, Grace, says.
With Zen, I just don’t hold onto names or nouns anymore was what I was thinking, aloud it seems.
Grace is a Zen master not because she is 90 but because she is contemplative in all ways. She was born to it. And she attends tai chi twice a week. Her whole life is a practice. She would never label herself a Zen master.
We were in the middle of a project that began simply enough but soon involved another neighbor. Specifically, I opened a package that was not mine.
The package was one of four I was expecting but as you can see, there are five packages. The shocking pink garment stunned but it was the thank you card that intrigued–one American meme of gratitude after another, the length of a paragraph.
I read the card aloud to Grace.
All these packages were dumped in the mailroom of our apartment complex on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. They were there for the taking and so I did.
It was not until I straightened the cardboard boxes Grace had so beautifully broken down with her seriously sharp knife that I saw the name on the box of great gratitude was not mine.
And now I was writing a card of explanation to a woman whose name I kept forgetting. Grace selected the blank note card, rejecting the polar bear in favor of the fir of a mountain. Appropriate for any occasion.
“Well, when you decide to get dressed, I’ll take you.” Grace was sitting on my leather loveseat, waiting, with her small knife lying next to her.
She wasn’t taking me anywhere in a red polo shirt so large and so long it was more skirt than shirt, nearly covering my khaki shorts. The logo read Elder Affairs.
I finish writing the card and read it to Grace. “That’s classy,” she says.
“I want her to know what I did in case she’s not there when we return the package.” And with that, I pick up the flat cardboard box that is not addressed to me.
“You’re not going to tape that back up, are you?”
“Trust me, Grace. Perception is everything. I’m admitting my guilt but I’m returning a taped package.”
Just another of the many ways I avoid becoming a Zen master. I was born to it.
And so, we began our journey to Grace’s car. I with my three-wheeled walker and the re-wrapped package tightly cornered into my walker’s lower bag, and Grace with her walking stick in one hand and under her other arm, four cardboard boxes now flat.
Grace decided who took what. She is Sicilian. We do things her way.
We drove halfway across the apartment complex before I told Grace, “I forgot the card.” We look at one another and then, Grace turns the car around.
Again, we drive across the apartment complex and we score the nearest accessible parking spot, the one near the elevator. As we ride to the second floor, I try to channel Grace, but I am who I am. Still, my focus remains mountain.
I tell the woman what happened, as it happened, all the while holding her package. She does not take it from me.
“Do you know how many people would not even bother to do this?”
I wasn’t clear. She doesn’t realize I opened her package. I should not have taped up the box.
As I look into the kind face of the woman accepting her package, I am determined not to burst into her life but I tell her my story, again, with profuse apologies and my concern about the boxes being left unattended.
“You’re an angel,” she says. I assure her I am not and introduce Grace who smiles and stays silent. We leave.
As we drive back, Grace says, “You know, I think she would have difficulty getting to the mail room.”
“I’m no angel.”
On this day I have Grace, and for that, there are not enough expressions of gratitude in any form.