TODAY

    There is so much evil and heartbreak happening right now. Whenever something especially hideous happens, and I won't name names, I first think, "These are end times, Children," but then I remind myself of an old Buddhist story about a farmer whose fences are broken down by wild horses.

    The neighbors come by to say how sorry they are for him. He shrugs. "Good news? Bad news? Who knows."

     The farmer's son rounds up a few of the horses, gets them into a corral and tames them.

     The neighbors come by rejoicing. The farmer shrugs. "Good news, bad news? Who knows?" The son is thrown by one of the horses and breaks his leg. Horrible, right? But wait--The Chinese army comes by conscripting young men for the draft. Oh, thank God...

     Who knows much of anything these days? All I know is that people around here are saying that today is my birthday and that I am 72. That is the craziest thing I've ever heard. I'm actually only 57. Not so old!

     My grandson asked me 12 years ago, when he was five, if all old people wear glasses. I asked, sort of shocked, if he thought I was old, and he whispered into his chest, "Sort of." He also asked if he could take a shower with me, if he promised not to laugh. And I was only 60, a mere slip of a girl. My memory, vision, hearing, and balance were all excellent. Well, better.

      I was almost always in a good mood then, because Obama was president. Harry Reid was Senate majority leader and America was still in the business of helping people. The news could be awful, but recognizably awful.

     Do you remember that, both the helping part, and the being recognizable part? I do.

     Maybe I can't find the keys--horribly, the extra set of house keys my dear friend entrusted me with just  yesterday, but they will turn up, and so will the America I know.

     I wouldn't have guessed at sixty that I would fall in love the following year, with a man named Neal who was a year younger. As a matter of fact, he was one year and three months younger, which means that on April 10th every year, he gets to be two years younger.

   So I am 72 today and he is 70, until July. It would be beneath me to mention that his vision is much worse than mine, and his memory no better. I am a Sunday School teacher, and people expect better of me.

     So here we are, two medium olds,

along with the traitorous teenage grandson who is excitedly about to start applying to college. We write, read, take walks, watch dark Nordic procedurals, and do what we can to ruin Stephen Miller's life.

     Neal taught me something important on our second date that he teaches his clients, that learning to say, "I don't know" is a portal to freedom.

      I was raised to figure things out, to know what happens next, to make the right decision and then stick with it. We were intellectuals. I was a baby know-it-all in a little red plaid kilt. I could use a slide rule when I was five. Knowing things was my family's spiritual path and claim to fame.

     Neal, who grew up the same wsay, taught me "I don't know."

    "When will America be restored to democracy and  taking care of people?" I don't know. (But she will.)

     "Is your memory decline just appropriate, or something worse?" I don't know. I aced the same cognitive test Trump took, and it was hard! You had to identify a hippo that sort of looked like a rhino, AND draw the hands on a clock to show 3:15. So, again, I don't know.

    Neal also taught me things about myself I hadn't known in my younger years. That life tilts to the good. That everything true and beautiful can be discovered on any ten-minute walk. That who I was and what I look like, including the upper arms, was perfect for him--his favorite thing. Of course some days were just too long. But who I was happened to be who he wanted, exactly, as is.

     I am going to break all the rules to celebrate today. Not go to the gym, maybe not floss, eat whatever I want whenever I want, and lie around being exhilaratingly useless. (Well, I probably will end up flossing, because I'm a goody-two-shoes. So much for going rogue. But maybe I won't wash my face before bed. That'll show 'em.)

   If you want to celebrate with me, send off a little gift to the ACLU or Oxfam. Pick up litter. Help me make Stephen Miller rue the day. Be joyful,  as Wendell Berry said, though you have considered all the evidence. Deal? For my birthday? Love.

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/786813/good-writing-by-neal-allen-and-anne-lamott/