I distinctly remember the elevator descent, scurrying across the massive lobby, weaving and dodging through downtown pedestrian traffic, jockeying for a position at the underground bus stop to then cram into the packed rush hour bus. We all had the same goal, but it didn’t feel like a shared experience. We didn’t look at each other, talk to each other, see each other.
I never heard anyone’s story, found out where they worked, what they loved about it, how they ended up here. There were no smiles, laughter or strangers turned to friends. Had you asked me about life, I would’ve given some conditioned response, Thank God it’s Friday or Life’s good, but just so busy. There’s never enough time to get it all done. And those were the responses I heard when I uttered the obligatory How are you?
I thought it was just normal. Then I decided it was a result of working downtown. Or perhaps of living in the city. Or maybe it was born from the way societal norms condition us to respond.
I ran through all the possible excuses until I realized it all came down to me. Whenever I put positivity and happiness out there, it would come back to me. When I looked people in the eye, they looked back. When I asked with genuine interest and enthusiasm they let go of canned responses and opened up. Didn’t matter where I was, who I was with or what I was doing. It worked. Time and time again.
I’m reminded of this during a short-lived funk. For a few hours people don’t seem as friendly, open or willing to connect. I want to get grumpier because of it. To backslide into a self-fulfilling prophecy of negativity. To whine, complain and bemoan the shortcomings of humanity. Until Baylor reminds me I’m always telling him to choose happy. I roll my eyes. Tell him he has a point and head to the beach instead.
We splash raucously in the sea. Prance enthusiastically along the shoreline. Faking left, I turn, circle Baylor and take off along the water. He catches up instantly. Runs, leaps and grins at me. Grabbing a ball, I try to get him excited to jump in the water. Laugh when he looks at me, raises an eyebrow, You first. Wading out, I’m amazed at how warm the December water is. Having grown up with snow-melt rivers and transitioned to rocky Pacific shores, the bath tub waters of the Gulf continually surprise me. We give ourselves away as foreigners diving in to water the locals find cold and inhospitable.
Beach frolic complete, happiness firmly in place, we walk back towards the parking lot. Load up for the three mile commute back to camp. Spend the next twenty minutes chatting with beach goers.
The woman who lights up when I tell here I just learned to ride in May. So there is hope for me? she asks. Absolutely, next time I see you you’re gonna be on a bike, I tell her.
The couple excited to snap a picture for their grandson.
The family on a long-term RV trip. Traveling the country so their kids can see what it’s really like, get an education in the realest sense.
The dog lovers and motorcycle enthusiasts who dream of taking their furry friend on an adventure.
We laugh, hug, exchange phone numbers, tell stories. It’s fleeting, yet real. We take the time. To look at each other, talk to each other, see each other.
There’s no end goal, just humanity at it’s best. Genuine, connected and intentionally happy.
183 days down. Many to come.
