Dr. Grauer's Column - Apology

Apology 
By Stuart Grauer

It was six in the morning after the elections and I was pumping gas. Across from me was a fit and nice-looking fellow filling his Ford SUV. We were across the pumping aisle, no more than four feet apart, pumping and silent. It had been a somber night in our part of the country for many among us, as though California were an outpost under the vague influence of a foreign sovereign.

It was strange standing so close to another human in this moment in time, doing the same thing, pumping, while saying nothing, with all these overtones in the air, at an historic moment, so I said How are you doing? He said Fine and looked up. 

Do you mind if I ask, did you win or lose?

Tired. I was up all night, he said. But there were no disruptions or trouble, no law enforcement, that’s what I care about, so I guess I won.

Well I was up, too, mostly reading or writing, I said, so it sounds like you did more than me. So you are a policeman or in  law enforcement?

Well, yes, actually, I’m a federal agent. I was reading, too. He said he was reading Psalms 23, and waiting. 

There was just this eerie, early morning pall pumping gas, nothing more. It dawned on me that thousands like him were up all night awaiting chaos that never happened, and that the many threats never manifest, and that federal agents everywhere were okay and going home to sleep. 

Well, I’ll read that one, Psalm 23. And thanks for doing that service. I’m a teacher. I was reading “Guest House.” By Rumi.  

Well, I’d like to read that. Who is that, Rooma, or?

Rumi. It’s called “The Guest House.” How about I’ll read “Psalms 23” and you read Guest House?

Yes, he said, and nodded like he understood something.

Now we were done with pumping.  I was glad for him this morning but not so sure about this winning. Worlds collide, Jerry, I thought, realizing we’d both been up, waiting for crazy different reasons that must be the same on some level.

"The Guest House", by Jalaluddin Rumi
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Psalms 23, King James Version
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Across the gas pump island, we were welcoming new times with honor and a strange peace, fitting the pumps back into their metal holsters in unison. We were not really up for different reasons after all. We read to be healers. We accept the full spectrum of life. There is a way. We’re tired and disengaging just like millions of influencer bots on social media are, like people across all kinds of aisles, our work done. He was going home for sleep. I was driving to Disneyland for distraction. 

Back on campus, we would have to remember again to welcome each student and their every challenge with openness and trust, as though we were welcoming them for the first time, with no aisle or bridge, and everything would feel okay if only we didn’t dwell on it too much or were a little less sure we understood everything or knew more than we could.

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