On the Move

At last the dreaded appointment with the rheumatologist. My heart races from the exertion of preparing to speak, dressing, calling a Lyft, stepping over the snow with my legs and walking sticks; it races as I sit in the cab and notice there is no plastic barrier. I screw up my courage and ask the driver to open the windows. He does, and I notice I've called him by a slightly wrong name. He forgives me and explains how "--deep" is part of many names in his country. I bite. Which country? India. 

I'm vaguely worried about talking in such close quarters but I can't resist. The driver is intelligent and articulate, explains Indian psychology and politics. His opinion, which connects with my experience, is that the jostling for superiority is such a part of the culture that no one is immune--not the old or young, not women or men, not the spiritual or political leaders, and so on. Then he explains the political system and how it is a remnant of the colonizing British, where most rules are not enforced but when they are, the brutality of the jails is so harsh that you would not survive several years. He was shocked when he got to the US and realized how many rules he had to actually follow, like stopping at a red light! I learn that "deep" as a name is a rythmic religious identifier of the Sikhs, and that the country is divided by the religions, impossible to get consensus. He believes that old people (those born in the 60s and 70s! --I was born in '59) need to die out for the situation to change. He thinks the young are more open minded. He doesn't know it but he just opened my mind.

Later, getting my blood drawn I chat with the nurse about cats we love and her Dad in Florida, happy there because of the warmth. He is from the Islands (Jamaica) so he always hated the New York winters. In the car on the way home, the driver is not chatty so I listen to a podcast of Kara Swisher interviewing Fran Lebowitz. Fran is talking about how her complaints about the city only thrive because she loves the city. While I listen I pass the parks on the Upper West Side, river on the left, then the Trump buildings appear and disappear, traffic squeezes then releases. 

Yes, it is still New York and I still love it. These incidental encounters save me from the comfort of isolation. And by the way, Fran Lebowitz, funnier to me than many comics with their own specials, was criticized in an editorial "pick" NYTimes column. People commenting on the column fell all over themselves noting how no one wants to hear a crabby old woman repeat herself. Well, I do. And I want to hear the other old women--Hillary, Elizabeth, Nancy, Toni (may she rest in peace), and so many others. 

For those of you who read this to check in with how I'm doing, I'm reminding myself that impermanence always rides to the rescue, as my friend sort-of said in his Dharma talk. My knee is swollen, after the vaccine, and arthritis symptoms make it harder to resist the beckoning weakness. Today I'll make another venture to the doc to make sure the swelling isn't a DVT. My coffee is delicious. So it goes.

Feb 12, 2021