elizabethlevett

One cold morning we were headed out on the bus downtown to take care of yet another discrepancy in our paperwork at HSS. I was feeling pretty flattened by recent events in Minnesota and inwardly whining about getting older. Somewhere along the way two women got on together and placed themselves near us — the younger one standing while the older one sat. They looked at each other and the younger one said, “Shit is going down.” “It’s going down alright, you better grab that Bible,” answered the other. Indeed. Shit is going down. After a few blocks the older one asked, “How old are you gonna be this year?” and the younger replied that she’d be turning forty-seven. “I just turned sixty-six,” the older woman said, with obvious pride. Same age as me, the eavesdropper with the long face. The younger of the two said, and I almost jumped up and thanked her, “Sixty-six? Blessings!” The older one was very pleased with herself at that point. “That’s right, girl. It’s such a blessing.” That just about took care of me for the rest of the day.

Pretty soon it was time to get off the bus and hustle across Market Street. HSS is located in one of those lovely, old-style office buildings, respectfully quiet and spare inside, with gleaming elevators and impressive statues in the lobby. We were the first visitors to arrive and thus had time to sit and settle ourselves. I reached down to re-tie my shoes and felt something suspiciously nasty on my shoe lace. Bird shit. Of course. And it wasn’t just on my shoe, this pigeon, one of the emissaries of ultimate humility, had left a long, long mark all the way down my right leg. Yes, dear reader, I did have time to go into the immaculate restroom and scrub my pants and shoes, only a tad embarrassed at the all-to-obvious wet mark all the way down the right leg of my pants. I had to laugh. Shit went down.

In Ireland, someone told me, when a bird leaves its “mark” on you, it’s supposed to be a sign that you’ve been blessed. Like that time when we went to watch the ocean after breakfast in Pacifica on our anniversary. The waves were glorious under an impossibly blue January sky. Our anniversary is January 6th, a day I insist belongs to us and not to the memory of a misguided mob attacking our nation’s capital. We always make a point of celebrating it together with breakfast out and a walk along the beach. Just as we were turning to go, a seagull left a big old pile on my beautiful husband’s beautiful leather jacket. Another blessing.

Yes, shit is going down. And still, it is possible to remain open to blessings, to hold both truths — that of violence and corruption, and the other truth — of forbearance, of wisdom, of compassion. It is possible and it is necessary to be steadfast and joyful, to hold each other close and remain ready once in awhile for a good laugh. To count out blessings, even or especially when shit is going down.