It Doesn't Get Better Than That

This is the last of the papers written for my classics class.  It seems an appropriate post as we approach the Thanksgiving holiday.  There is beauty in becoming... in change... and in gratitude.

William, a man born with muscular dystrophy and several mental diseases, including schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, had been admitted into the state mental hospital.  One day, a visiting friend routinely asked how he was doing.  “I can breathe,” was William’s reply.   He paused, then added:  “And it doesn’t get any better than that.”

The friend was surprised.  He was not expecting such a response.  Here was a man living in a situation that to most people would be unthinkable, unbearable.  Yet William’s answer was steeped in powerful humility, profound understanding, and deep gratitude.    I can breathe – and it doesn’t get any better than that.  The friend would never forget those words… nor the lesson that they imparted.*

I wake up, almost afraid to listen for the sounds of children stirring overhead.  Stirring children mean arguing children – at least that’s the way it feels sometimes.  Yes, there it is: the sound of little sister yelling at big brother to leave her pink piggy alone.  It has become a familiar refrain.  Surely my life is more difficult than anyone realizes or appreciates, I think in a burst of self-pity.  A shriek – someone has stubbed a toe.  A splash – someone has knocked over their water cup.  “Mommy, I missed the potty!”  I sigh.  When is that purple heart going to be delivered?  Surely I have earned it by now.  Weariness, frustration, anger – the familiar emotions hover on the periphery, waiting to be invited to enter the scene.  They are, after all, familiar guests.  But today I wonder what would happen if, instead of inviting them in and ushering them to the front row, I pause and take time to breathe.  Not just inhaling and exhaling – but breathing like William breathes.  Breathing while inviting gratitude with each inhalation, and exuding joy and thanksgiving with each exhalation.  Purposeful breathing.  Deep breathing.  If I focused – just for a moment – on that, perhaps amidst the chaos I could say, “It doesn’t get any better than this” – and really mean it.

Perhaps.  But I’m too tired to be convinced.  The thought will not be entirely dismissed, however.  I begin to wonder what would happen if I took a moment to substitute some verbs into William’s phrase.  Hmmm.  What about see, hear, walk, run, jump?  I can do all of those things.  What else?  I can read, touch, feel, listen, smell, hug, kiss.  I can laugh, and smile, and cry.  I can do all of those things. And, when it comes right down to it, it doesn’t get any better than that, does it?  So why is it that on mornings like today, I find myself feeling, more often than not, like a martyr rather than a mother?

Another verb comes to mind: change.  Change.  “Yes,” I think. “I can change – and it doesn’t get better than that.”  I feel hope entering my heart.  I can change.  So even if I get to the end of today thinking, “Well, we all survived today.  I can be grateful for that” – it doesn’t mean that every day has to end that way.  Perhaps tomorrow will find me thinking, “I can breathe and it doesn’t get any better than that.”  Perhaps the next day will, too.  And maybe those days will become the rule, rather than the exception.  And then maybe, just maybe, I will get to the end of each day, and be able to say, in all honesty, “I can breathe.  I can see.  I can feel – and love and listen and touch and cry and laugh.  I am alive.  I am a mother.  And it doesn’t get better than that.”

*From a story cited in The Soft-Spoken Parent  by H. Wallace Goddard.

Image by Nicole