We had a dance party. After the Thai food that left us full to the brink (Kim, how did you make that food taste so good? Was it sorcery?), we put on music and did the dishes. Warm sake and good music turned the laughter that shook our shoulders into dancing that shook our hips and we belly danced with scarves on our waists and bangles on our ankles for hours, twirling into exhaustion. When we finally collapsed onto the couches, we talked of our great hopes and our great convictions. And as the night wore on we asked things the things that you ask in the cover of darkness: where did you come from and who are you?
And, in whispered tones, do you think- if there is no heaven and no hell- if you died today, has your life been worthwhile?
I answered this question in light of that first psychotic and overwhelming work week.
So that night, after the dancing, after the collapse onto the couches, when they turned to me, for my answer- have I been worthwhile- this is what I said:
I don’t know. Maybe I have, in the butterfly effect sense. I mean, I haven’t had any great achievements. I haven’t done anything that I think anyone will remember. I don’t think my death will cause anyone or anything to collapse inward on his or her or itself. But Mother Theresa has this quote “Every time we smile at someone, it’s an act of love, a gift we give to that person.” This week at work I just kept repeating that to myself over and over and over, trying to convince myself that even if I wasn’t doing anything else I was making it better just by smiling at people. Just to have someone who smiled instead of bitched, to have someone at least tried to appear like they wanted to be there, wanted to see them, that it was making it just a little bit better. So no, I don’t think I’ve made a huge difference, but at the same time I guess… I’ve tried to smile at people. So, yeah.
Yeah.
I really really hope so.
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