Notes on Love

I’ve worked retail, on and off, for many years. It’s not my favourite work yet neither is it so dreadful that I have made a vow never to return. Retail work requires a certain amount of extroversion—of which I lay no claim—and an equal dose of stagecraft—of which I like to think I have in abundance. In other words it exhausts me while nurturing the entertainer part of myself that lives to be seen and heard. Not an easy balance and, unfortunately, an act that pays less than the energy required to succeed. Regardless, it does pay the bills while I pursue my dreams of writing and bodywork.

One of the things I have learned in retail, and ironically in the least favourite of that category of jobs—cashier in a big box hardward store—was something that has since helped me not only in my bodywork practice but in general communication, especially with my aged father. It is the art of silence—of listening with an open heart and quiet patience, of hearing without judgment or need to tell my story. Although I am not, by any account, a master of this skill, I find it funny how this most precious gift was taught to me in the most innocuous of places: over a cash register in a big box store. Life stories were told and poignant moments shared in a matter of seconds when I stopped bemoaning my fate and just listened to the person who stood before me.

Excerpt from Notes from the Bottom of the Box: the Search for Identity by a Modern-Day Renaissance Woman.

The woman pushed her card into the interact machine. Her husband, grabbing their purchases and heading for the door, asked, Okay? She nodded and punched in her PIN. Halfway through she looked up at me and said, He always does that. We shop together, but he leaves as soon as I start paying. Bewilderment washed over her face. It was as if this was the first time she had ever given words to the experience. Her tone then took on a subtle sharpness, He doesn’t like to waste time.

I asked how long they had been married. Forty-five years, she said.

The woman paused as she waited for her transaction to complete. By the time I get to the car he will have it loaded, and we’ll be ready to go. Her expression changed again, softening. It’s efficient, she said, and walked out the door.

 *  * * 

The wedding band on her finger was beautiful; ‎I told her so. Thank you, she said, as she finished paying her bill. We've been married seventeen years, but last month we renewed our vows. She described the event in loving detail and then concluded with, It was a total surprise... I thought we were just meeting friends in town for a fancy dinner.  After that she paused, her face a mixture of love and grief: I was diagnosed with MS last year, she said, it's been a hard year for him.

*  * *

The man led his wife of many years up to my till. She appeared lost, her eyes far away with a hint of fear. He spoke softly to her with reassuring and gentle words. We finished the transaction and he said, I cant leave her alone. She comes with me everywhere. I am so tired. I asked if he had considered in-house care or some other form of respite. My questions went unheard. People tell me, he says, to put her in care. How can I? We have lived in our home for fifty years. I love her.

Stay tuned for more weekly excerpts from Notes from the Bottom of the Box. If you like this blog, please like me on my Modern-Day Renaissance Woman Facepage.  Thanks for the support!
If you like my writing, check out my other blog, The Interdependent Life.