Frankly Speaking

There is a certain sameness to life that connects the majority of us.

For the most part, we all start out the same way. Kids bundled up in snow suits and tuques, gloves and scarves. We stand on street corners waiting for buses, armed with over-sized back-packs and lunch boxes.

We ache to grow older and find ourselves in the midst of teenagerdom. We stand waiting for the same buses, suddenly immune to the cold and minus anything that even remotely resembles a scarf or glove. We ditch the lunch bags. We ache to grow older.

Eventually, we do, and we find ourselves, much like I did today, waiting for the train amidst a crowd of like-minded commuters. Bundled with coats and scarves because - as we now know – it’s impossible to feel warm enough without your gear on a Fall morning. We are once again armed with backpacks and lunch boxes.

We move from the train to the Path. We shuffle along in the same kind of way, clicking away and texting away and planning away for the hours ahead. We walk alongside the same people as we did yesterday, all heading in similar directions to do our similar things. We pass the muffin lady, the still-closed hot dog stand, and the man with the violin.

And then, every once in awhile, something happens. Today, in place of the mournful soundtrack the violin man normally plays out in the middle of our pre-8 a.m. rush, came a surprise. As we all clicked and texted and rushed our way past him, he came out with Flight of the Bumblebee.

We snapped to attention, and we stopped dead in our tracks. Someone passing by tossed a few extra coins into the violin case. I shook my head a little, smiled, and chuckled to myself as I walked just a little bit slower, and stopped with the clicking and the texting for a minute or two.

In a world of sameness, it takes something a little out of the ordinary to remind us all to stop and look for the extraordinary. It’s all around us. It’s all there for us to appreciate and revel in and enjoy. Even when there is clicking and texting and shuffling and marching and commuting to get done. The joy in life comes with stumbling upon those moments, and holding on to them with all you’ve got.

Sure, it might seem like the same old. But there’s more to life than just that. The challenge is remembering to look for it.

I don’t know how to drive. I don’t mean I’m a bad driver, like when you’re cruising down the highway and some wahoo cuts you off and you think “Now, THAT guy doesn’t know how to drive!”

I really don’t know how to drive. At all, actually.

I’m not a bad driver in the traditional sense. I don’t speed. I don’t weave in and out of traffic. I don’t practice unsafe highway usage. I just – generally speaking – don’t know what the hell I am doing on the road.

Take today, for instance. On two separate occasions, at two different intersections, I sat through an entire green light because I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to turn left. You know how sometimes, a green light means go? And sometimes there’s a green arrow AND a green light? Well, I’m never sure if that arrow part is supposed to light up too. So I often just sit there. Waiting. In case.

Naturally, I aim to learn from those around me. Today was no exception. This morning, a woman eventually leaned on her horn long enough that I figured a left turn right about then would be greatly appreciated. Tonight, I watched another woman become completely hysterical in my review mirror – another clear indicator that it was my time to turn. Without them though, I’ll admit: I would have been completely at a loss.

Personally, I blame my mother. She usually flat out refused to drive with me (which is partially why I had to take the freaking exam three separate times – i.e. you don’t want to be going through your first intersection ever during your actual driver’s test, you’re bound to screw something up). And on the one or two times she did drive with me, all I remember her doing was hanging onto that little handle meant for dry-cleaning and screaming “Beware of stale green!”

Needless to say, our lessons together were short lived, and she never did explain exactly what about a stale green light I was supposed to be looking out for. Which is why I’m not entirely sure if green really does mean go. Which – in turn – is why after my little excursion today, I’ll be reverting back to my general policy of “No Driving Outside of Hudson”.

After all, in Hudson there are no traffic lights – just stop signs. And those, I can handle.