Lunch with Francis

I visited with Sondra at the hospital this morning, and then Francis and I went to lunch at a little French place on First and 20th. We got a shaded outside table and apart from various sirens, enjoyed our Croque Monsieur (Francis) and roasted vegetables on baguette (Susan).

What is it when you're about to say something and you know it's a really lousy thing to say and you have it in you to not say it but then you go ahead and say it anyway, knowing it's not even going to bring you much satisfaction? What on earth is that?

Whatever it is, I had one, or I did one, or I surrendered to one. There I was sipping on my diet Coke and expressing my personal discontent with how persons X and Y have responded to Sondra's health crisis this winter, spring and now summer. Francis listened and nodded. I kept talking. After I'd had my say, he took a beat and then he talked about why he doesn't take up the way of making people wrong in regard to how they respond to Sondra (my language, not his), about how it seemed more important to stay connected to people in whatever way they permitted than to make them wrong. Then he talked about someone I'd failed to mention (mere oversight) who'd read him the riot act a couple of months ago. "She was crazy," he said, taking a single French fry from the bowl between us. "And I decided that she's really a good woman and I would just continue to relate to her goodness, and leave her craziness alone."

May I, in days and years to come, learn the wisdom this nearly 90 year old man with no spiritual practice exhibits every day. May his compassion be my teacher and may I learn well. May my mouth be reserved mostly for eating and drinking, for breathing when my nose is badly congested, for singing and chanting, for blowing bubbles with bubble gum, for presenting proudly to my dental hygienist because my dental hygiene is excellent.