Sharla Dawn Gorder

The sun rose, a little late, but with resplendence, the way I like it.  And just at the moment it broke through the fleecy band of clouds at the horizon, my phone died, forcing me to see it through my eyes instead of the lens of my iPhone camera.  Of course my first thought was, oh, bummer.  Followed immediately by, oh wow.

And I won’t try to describe the sunrise here.  It often seems that trying to write down the sky is like trying to capture a hurricane in a mason jar.  It’s too big, too complicated, too emotional and uncontrollable.  It blows the lid off.  I’ll just say it was really pretty.  And you’ll have to trust me on that because my phone died.

What if all our phones died?  All of a sudden.  Every single one.  Who would struggle the most?  Who would secretly sigh with relief?  Who would gloat?  Who wouldn’t notice?

I answered all of those questions just now in my head.  (Try it!) I know who, in my life, would be completely hobbled, who would enjoy the reprieve, who would be all high and mighty about it, and who would have to be told—“Hey, all the cell phones in the world just died!”

And, surprisingly, it’s not the folks in the last category—the technologically oblivious ones—that I tend to enjoy the most.  It certainly isn’t the ones who vaunt their low tech “superiority.”  And while I, sadly, can relate, it isn’t the ones who feel lost and bereft without their little electronic buddies in hand and fully charged.

I find myself drawn to the ones who are able to welcome the reprieve and immediately enjoy it.  The ones whose first instinct exclaims, oh wow—not, oh bummer.

I’m thinking of three people in that category right now—Lynas, Anna and Tabitha.  And spending time with them is like getting a massage while watching a sunset while listening to acoustic guitars while eating ripe strawberries dipped in chocolate.  In May.  On the beach. I feel relaxed and indulged and entertained and nourished and valued in their presence.

These aren’t necessarily the friends, though, who’ll get back to me instantaneously when I text them—though they always respond eventually.  And they aren’t the ones who have truckloads of time to spend with me.  Though they can always find a bucketful.

And it occurs to me that the reason they don’t always get back to me in the moment is because they are busy living in that moment with another friend perhaps, or their mom or kid or second cousin from Poughkeepsie, or the old guy who bags their groceries at Publix—making them feel relaxed and indulged and entertained and nourished and valued. Their way with me when they are with me isn’t about me really.  I’d like it to be.  I’d like to think that I feel so good around them because I’m just so damn wonderful.  But their way of being around me is about who they are not who I am.

And all of my “oh bummer” idiosyncrasies, elicit instead, “oh, wow,” from these dear people, and I am made better by them, though they would never presume to advise or admonish.

So, imagine—all the phones in the world just died.

Oh, wow.  Now what were you saying?