Today, at the park, from up ahead on the path, a little girl with a messy pony tail turned around and beamed at me proudly. She wore white leggings with silver sparkles. No coat. Her shirt looked like a big brother's hand-me-down number, one complete with droopy, striped long sleeves. Now picture her dirt-scuffed cheeks. She was excited, wild, and flushed, and her wide lips burned red above her narrow, pointed chin.
Then she whipped her head forward to refocus, pedaling her tiny, pink bicycle with tremendous effort. Due to the struggle, and the training wheels, it appeared that it was her first time out with the impressively decorated, miniature machine. Well, soon after, she veered sharp right and took quite a fall, and for a minute, she just hung out there on the ground, as if she were confused at her current state; she was suddenly spread out, flat to the pavement. The pause. Silence. I waited for the tears.
Her fast dad rushed over and scooped her up, but she didn't cry. Still, glasses tilting sideways, brown curls peeking out from his baseball cap, he held her tightly, embracing her with thick hands. The bike lay there on its side, front wheel still spinning, but the dad didn't hurry over to pick it up. Instead, he planted his feet right on the path, holding his little girl. Because of the roadblock -- him, the girl, and the bike -- there was no way for anyone to sneak by without veering sideways into the mud.
Now, it was a strangely warm February afternoon, so there were countless park visitors -- one roller derby girl, speed walkers, slow walkers, skaters, dog park visitors, and then some. Traffic zoomed all around, both with the clock and counter-clock.
A few more minutes passed, and several groups struggled to move around the little girl and her bike, but the dad didn't budge. He simply held his little girl. Yes, the bike remained strewn across the path. Even as people stumbled over the bike, the dad stood his ground, gripping his daughter.
Now, I struggle with anxiety, so normally, I would keep to myself, and I certainly wouldn't touch something that foreign to me. I have trouble with hugging, certain chairs, certain rooms, and the like. But for some reason, I didn't think twice about it. I walked up, grabbed the filthy handlebar, and set the bike upright. Then I looked up at the big-eyed dad, who nodded and smiled at me, seemingly surprised.
I looked back, nodding, feeling equally surprised. The act of random touch was huge for me.
First, I thought about the dirty handlebar; I was suddenly worried that I might have caught something. Then I thought about the way that he held her, how the moment with his daughter was more important to him than cleaning up any mess, and it touched me to the core. I thought about my dad, and how many times he picked me up when I fell. Then I thought about my mom, my brother, my sister, my extended family, and my friends. I thought about these moments -- the times when we help each other in any small way -- and how they make this life such a powerful existence.
I forgot about the handlebar. It became about them, not me.
So here's my political platform. What if...we all helped someone with training wheels. What if...we changed this country from the inside out. What if...tomorrow...each person made one small gesture to improve someone else's day. Instead of giving to an organization, give your last twenty dollars to a friend who needs it. At the gym, offer someone a glass of water. At work, make someone a coffee or take out someone's trash. Find someone depressed and get him to take ten steps outside. Find someone anxious and give her a cookie, or a distraction, or a dream. Something simple. Anything simple. Brush a sick friend's cat. Instead of eating out, buy someone a gift card. Instead of criticizing yourself, give yourself a complement. Buy a friend some coconut milk, even though you don't like it, because his life is his life and yours is yours. Help him or her, with no agenda, no plan, no expectation of reward.
One...small...thing.
Hold the door for a stranger. Scrape the ice off of a neighbor's car. Call that friend who just relapsed. Give a rose to someone special. Write a letter to someone in prison. Write a gentle, heartfelt note to someone on Instagram, whether he/she be famous or infamous or not. Who the fuck cares, because we are in this together, no matter the title or position. We all had that first bike ride once. Every single last one of us. We are all suffering from something. So why not, why not, reach out?
And if nothing comes to mind in terms of helping someone, try being transparent. Because we are alive. The biggest gift we can give to another human being is to share honest words from the heart. That doesn't cost anything at all. One...small...thing.
Don't have anything to give? Too much on the plate? Visit a detox. How about a correctional facility. Check out a state mental health hospital. I've led weekly meetings at all of these places over the years. When I walk out of these facilities, I think one thing: I'm lucky to be free and alive, to be able to give, and there is nothing I need.
So, give.
Because love radiates outward. Because one father's love made me face my anxiety head-on and realize all of the blessings in my life, and in turn, I helped clear the path, and I gave him more time to savor his moments with his daughter. That is how it works. We hold each other up, and when we do, we change the park, the grocery store, the office, and the home. We change the universe.
I don't belong to any party or group. I love a lot of religions. I believe in the magic of the sky. I'd rather box than go to a women's rally. I listen to everything from Nina Simone to Alice in Chains. I'd rather walk and pet a dog than get a pedicure. I dress like a thirteen-year-old boy, but I'm so in love with old school romance that I get lost in it. I've never had kids. I'm 45, and I've never even lived with anyone. I like spinach, and I like black licorice. I'm a vegetarian who pounds Diet Dew. Nothing about me fits into one particular group or ideology. And think about it, everyone around is just as multifaceted.
We all are.
One...small...thing. I say we can heal this way -- moving from the internal to the external, deciding to improve who we are by making seemingly minuscule changes that radiate outward and create a sense of joy and belonging. One...small...thing. Don't take credit, just do it. I say hope is born through individual action. And what if...this small stuff...is the key to repairing families, repairing communities, and repairing nations. Help someone with training wheels today. What if...this small stuff...is the stuff of miracles.
OK, I'm still thinking about that handlebar, but it was worth it.
C.A. MacConnell
2/14/2020
Photo: West.
Happy Valentine's Day! 💞I wish I had a valentine ;) Ah well, I do have a lot of quirks.
C.A. MacConnell
2/10/2020
Shavings
Hand me a bandage. Earlier, I cut myself;
we are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.
C.A. MacConnell
🤍
we are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.
C.A. MacConnell
🤍
