“Breathe in, ‘Om.’ ”
“Breathe out. ‘Shanti (peace).’ ”
In the early evening class, I find myself beaming.
Om, breathing in.
Shanti, breathing out.
“Use this in your daily life,” he says. “In traffic. In the dentist’s chair. Be a lighthouse.”
I float out of class, late spring raindrops fall like sugar dust on my airy head, breathing in, breathing…
My foot sinks into a pot hole the size of a humongous horseshoe crab. This one is on the sidewalk, not the street, where more pot holes exist than flat pavement.
I limp toward my car.
My cell phone rings and I answer blissfully while opening the car door.
“Yessss?” I purr like a contented cat.
“This is your Express Scripts call-in,” the fake-smiling automatic voice says. “Your prescription cannot be filled until we obtain further information from your doctor.”
“Crap!” I shout to no live person on the other end. “How hard can it be to fill a monthly prescription that I’ve had for…”
Be a Lighthouse, even to the nameless humanoid, I remind myself.
I begin the car’s engine and stop my useless ranting.
“Thanks for your call,” I hum as the car runs like a marathoner to my home destination.
Where dinner must be prepared.
Be a lighthouse.
A crack as the opener goes around and around the can, not opening or slicing or even denting the tin.
I try over and over again, teeth gritting, angry can opener refusing to comply.
A can opener is as simple as a chicken and rice dinner. How could it possibly go wrong?
Be a lighthouse.
The lighthouse decides she needs a glass of wine to help with the meal preparation.
Her guy has a newfangled electric wine opener that’s so easy it’s almost comical. Place the thingamajig over the bottle’s cork, press down, and Presto!
The wine bottle whirls and the opener whirrs, but the cork refuses to cooperate.
I try again. And again.
The cork is now half out, which means half of it is broken in the thingamajig, and half is still in the bottle.
My lighthouse dims.
I have failed to bring peace into my own kitchen, much less the world.
– just as my guy walks through the front door from what he euphemistically calls, “hunting and gathering.”
He raises an eyebrow as he enters the kitchen and sees his lady on the floor, in yogic pose, with fingers circled in the eternity position.
“I’m a lighthouse,” I say.
“Ah,” he responds.
Then he attempts to fix the wine thingamajig.
[Thanks to Virginia Woolf for lending me the title of one of her books (we are relatives, after all), and thanks to Google Images. If you’re a bit stressed today, listen to this chant. I promise you, you’ll be beaming light and peace by the end. You’re welcome.]