Recently, I had the privilege of sitting in a beautiful church in Washington D.C. and listening to Anne Lamott speak about poetry, writing, and recovery. She shared the story about going dress shopping with her best friend, Pammy. Anne was trying to find an outfit that would impress the man she was dating and Pammy was dying of breast cancer. She wrote about it in her beautiful book, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life:
“About a month before my friend Pammy died, she said something that may have permanently changed me.
We had gone shopping for a dress for me to wear that night to a nightclub with the man I was seeing at the time. Pammy was in a wheelchair, wearing her Queen Mum wig, the Easy Rider look in her eyes. I tried on a lavender minidress, which is not my usual style. I tend to wear big, baggy clothes. People used to tell me I dressed like John Goodman. Anyway, the dress fit perfectly, and I came out to model it for her. I stood there feeling very shy and self-conscious and pleased.
Then I said, ‘Do you think it makes my hips look too big?’ and she said to me slowly, ‘Annie? I really don’t think you have that kind of time.’”
My husband, who was seated next to me, leaned over. “I’m going to say that all that time.” And he has.
The other day, I turned to him after zipping all my clothes and toiletries into my suitcase for an upcoming work trip and asked earnestly, “Why can’t I be one of those people who travel with a carry on and a purse?”
“Lexi,” he said, looking up at me with a dismissive wave of his hand, “We don’t have that kind of time.”
We both laughed and, for that moment at least, I let go of some of the pressure I put on myself to be someone I’m not.
It’s been a mantra I keep returning to when I find myself too lost in doom scrolling or calculating how many carbs I’ve had in one day or Googling what are lip flips? and is there an eye cream that can help me or am I just going to look tired for the rest of my life?
Days ago, I found myself stretched over the bathroom sink, my face thisclose to the mirror counting every grey hair that was sprouting around my forehead. I was contemplating whether or not I should just pluck them. Somewhere, I heard Anne’s sweet, soft-spoken voice: Lexi, you don’t have that kind of time.
I brushed my teeth, I washed my face, which I reminded myself is perfect as is. I sent a few messages to friends who are dealing with broken hearts, flooded basements, and sick toddlers. I swiped out of my social media accounts and put myself to bed.
Is this mantra the antidote to capitalism or ageism or self-centeredness? Probably not. But here’s what I think it could be: a nudge in the right direction, a reminder to shift perspective, a few simple words that make me feel more present. For now, that feels like enough.
Anne Lamott closed the event by reading “Gate A-4” by Naomi Shihab Nye. It’s another reminder of what matters and what this world needs. Spoiler alert: it is not a lip flip.
Gate A-4, by Naomi Shihab Nye
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning
my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement:
"If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please
come to the gate immediately."
Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just
like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. "Help,"
said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We
told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."
I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.
"Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-
se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly
used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled
entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the
next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is
picking you up? Let's call him."
We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would
stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to
her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just
for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while
in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I
thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know
and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee,
answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool
cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and
nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the
lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered
sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.
And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two
little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they
were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—
by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag,
some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country
tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This
is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that
gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about
any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.
This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
Once again you touched so many emotions! ❤️