I broke my Starbucks Doha mug this morning. A stupid slip. I’ve noticed lately that I’ve become a bumbler, a fumbler, a last-minute grasper of things about to fall. I need to work on my grip strength, I suppose. Is that yet another in the litany of things that age strips away from us?
I stood in the middle of the kitchen staring at the jagged fragments; the large hunks of brightly colored ceramic, and tiny bits as fine as dust. It seemed a ridiculous thing to weep over, yet I did.
There were people all over the world struggling in myriad ways. Their suffering was magnificent, humbling. I had not shed a tear for anything during this period, not when I was sick and confined to bed, nor when I was recovering but still so weak that I couldn’t be productive. I watched the news all day, propped up by pillows, playing Candy Crush and Word Blitz on my iPad. I was too weak to move, or even to think. I heard the news, I absorbed it through the pores of my skin, it made my heart ache, but still, I did not cry.
I didn’t cry when the killings were broadcast in high definition, when the protests started, when the inevitable looting followed. I only felt weaker, minutely less resistant as each day flowed by like an endless, wide, slow river in the middle of a stultifying summer season.
I hadn’t cried when I learned that the three-year contract I had for work in the Middle East, only one year of which had been served, was abruptly cancelled. It represented eighty percent of my projected income. But more than that, it was a wonderful opportunity to see a world I had only briefly glimpsed, and now, would probably never see again.
But that contract had come by a fluke, through a long-standing friendship. I hadn’t had to work for it, not really. And the first year’s experience had been richly rewarding. I had lived every second of it, my eyes open, my arms flung wide to take in every sound and scent, every new taste, the feel of ancient carpets soft under my fingers. The people were generous, eager to lead me to new incidents of wonder. Joy at the sound of the evening call to prayer. Led to new humility; Inshallah punctuating the end of every statement. If God wills it.
I swept up the pieces of the mug, the city’s name split into two, Do on one; ha on another. I dropped to my knees, full of gratitude for what I had received in the gifts of that experience. Grateful for recovering from the illness, rather than dying from it. Grateful for the safety of those I loved. And eventually, gratitude filled in the empty spaces the losses had created. Prayer turned to those who were suffering. Tears dried. Strength returned. The day resumed.
