The Stranger in Starbucks

A few days ago I was standing in line at Starbucks. This is not something I am used to -- typically I'm at Starbucks around 6:30am where the "line" is the same skinny brown-haired guy in a sweater and thick-rimmed-GQ-styling-specs. However, on THIS day at Starbucks it was around 8:00am and the line was 10 people deep and growing.

I briefly turned around to survey the situation. That's when I noticed the man standing directly behind me. He was in his early 70s I would guess, maybe older. African American. 6 feet 1 inch tall-ish. He was wearing an old, battered, exhausted hat and an expressionless face. He looked tired... then again, a lot of the people on our side of the register looked tired.

Just as I turned back around (trying to ignore the weapon of carbohydrates covered in a pile of cheese - otherwise known as an asiago bagel -- can't fool me, I know asiago is just a fancy word for cheese-that-you'll-regret-eating-later), another early 70s-ish man approached us. He was white, portly, and moving a little slow. As he passed, he looked to the man behind me and a slight smile crossed his face. At first I attributed it to the venti beverage in his hands, but then he spoke to the man behind me.

"Thank you for your service."

I'll admit, for an instant I was very confused. I thought he was thanking the man behind me for getting him the coffee... "serving" him. Though, I was pretty sure the man standing behind wasn't wearing a Starbucks apron. I turned back just to double check and that's when I noticed, for the first time, that his old, battered, exhausted hat said NAVY on the front. Ah, THAT kind of service.

I also noticed that his expression had changed. I'm not sure how to explain it - I am sure I'll never fully understand it - but I do know that it was good. I know it said "Thank you" and endlessly more.

I was paying as he ordered his drink with a smile.

.....
This experience reminded me of a story I posted in June. And since I am on vacation (and anxious to get to the beach!), I thought it might be a good time to revisit a favorite of mine. This story is called:

Be a Stranger


Tonight I had the privilege of dinner and a movie with a dear friend of mine. Despite the fact that we both live in the Phoenix Metro Area, she was in my wedding, and I watched her first daughter be born ... I RARELY see her. Not only do I not see her, but we barely even get to speak. It is an absolute shame, the world moves too fast -- but tonight, we made a date and kept it.

We met at the usual spot; California Pizza Kitchen. Ate the usual meal; Waldorf Chicken Salad (a salad that makes me not feel like I'm missing out on the pizza). Talked the usual talk; she listened as I blah blah blahed my way through. You know, typical girls' night out.

However, in a moment when I stopped to take a breath (or more likely a bite), she said something that I pondered the whole drive home ... Actually, it's what's keeping me up tonight, when in fact I should be sleeping. What she said reminded me of the day I decided to move to California.

----

It was very early December of 2006. I had been in Phoenix (Scottsdale actually) for about two and a half months and I had had enough. Work wasn't what I was hoping it would be, I hadn't met any people I particularly cared for, and the ONE person I DID meet who I THOUGHT I cared for, turned out to have a live-in girlfriend (and all that time I thought he liked hanging out at my place because of my awesome futon). Yep, two and a half months were enough for me.

On a Saturday morning I made my decision. I had been out the night before with the people I didn't particularly care for and woke up with the kind of headache that would make anyone want to leave town. I packed a bag, grabbed my laptop, and prepared to hit the road -- the 10 west as a matter of fact; straight to Los Angeles. I remember just as I was about to close the door on the apartment I passed the mirror that hung on the wall.

It was a mirror I bought at IKEA the day I moved to Arizona because I loved it -- actually, I loved what I SAW when I looked into it. When I looked in that mirror that day at IKEA, I saw hope. Hope and excitement in my own reflection.

However, the face in the mirror on THIS day did NOT look hopeful; it was ragged, worn and tired. The hair was matted and the eyes were lonely. This face had had enough.

It was not my best day.

I walked down to my car, in my pajamas more or less, and drove down the street to the first gas station. I pulled up to a pump and started to fill up. I remember struggling with the key pad, trying to figure out why it needed SO MUCH information just to give me a little gas. I remember the handle kept clicking off when I tried to set it on autofill. I remember being so anxious just to get out of Arizona and so frustrated that this gas station was making it SO impossible.

And then someone pulled up along side of me and rolled down his window.

Oh no. I bet my tires are low. It was always OTHER people pointing out that my tires were low.

However, the man behind the wheel said nothing about my tires... instead he said in a voice that was not wanting or in the least bit suggestive,

"You know, you are really beautiful."

My jaw dropped and my hand slipped from the handle (so the gas immediately stopped pumping). I didn't know what to say. This was the last thing I had ever expected anyone in Arizona to say to me on this particular Saturday, or on ANY Saturday in Arizona.

Thank you? I started to respond... but he just waved, as if it were nothing, and drove off.

I never saw him again.

But I never forgot him.

I never moved to California. I went out there until Tuesday and then I decided it was time to "come home." When I walked into my apartment after that long drive, I looked in the mirror that hung on the wall and said to myself, "You know, you are really beautiful."

---------

Now WHAT you might ask could my friend have said at dinner tonight that would make me remember that day, those events? Well, it was this:

I told her her eyebrows looked nice.

That is something completely normal to say to a friend ... but when I told my dear friend this over dinner tonight, she proceeded to tell me this story:

She was driving through the drive through at McDonalds, something she didn't usually do, but it was just one of THOSE DAYS where the ONLY thing that seems right with the world is McDonalds drive thru. As she pulled up to the first window to pay, she of course couldn't find the cash she had brought with her. She was digging under her legs, in between the seats, under the floormat, in the glovebox, all with growing frustration and with her movements becoming more spastic and unruly. She finally found the it stuffed in her sock. She yanked out the cash and thrust it at the girl in the window, panting.

The girl froze. She looked at my friend intently. Oh no, she's probably mad the cash is sweaty, thought my friend. It was at that moment the McDonalds drive thru window cash taker girl said:

"I love your eyebrows."

My friend paused, let out a sigh of relief, smiled and thanked the stranger for making her day.

Years later, at CPK, my friend could remember the day a stranger liked her eyebrows.

In a world where friends have to book quality time a week in advance, where phone calls are replaced with text messages and texts are replaced with tweets, it seems the "stranger" carries a stronger responsibility. Just as I remembered the stranger at the gas station, she remembered the stranger at the McDonalds drive thru, I would venture to say we aren't the only to people who remember the strangers that made our day.

Though the phrase random acts of kindness has, over the years, become cliche; the recipients of those acts, I believe, have become no less grateful, especially since true moments of genuine kindness are so rare. This evening on my drive home, I thought of all the many interactions I must have had in my life - and how interesting it was, that one I remember so vividly is one I never saw coming and would never see again.

So, tonight I challenge you this. If the opportunity arises, be the kind stranger to make someone's day. Be the kind stranger people will tell stories about years later, as they enjoy a long-overdue night out with a friend.

.....

That is the end of the story I wrote in June, but the story continues to be written. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. It is not always easy to be the stranger you know you should. Yesterday, I was in the airport, and walking toward me came two men. Men about my age, maybe older. Men dressed in their Fatigues. As the gap between us closed, I thought of the man behind me in line at Starbucks and the expression of gratitude after a stranger reached out. I thought of the man at the gas station, the woman at McDonalds. I knew what I was supposed to do. They walked closer, and closer. One of the men looked me straight in the eye, as if he knew what I was supposed to do. I know it was only for a moment, but time seemed to suspend -- waiting, hoping I would take this opportunity to apply what I had learned ...

And then the moment passed. Just as I was about to open my mouth, they had already walked by.

I was bummed. I knew better. I don't know what held me back. Shyness? Fear? I don't know. I do know I'll be ready though. Next time, I'll be a stranger.

Beware the Buicks

Friday morning was a great morning. The kind of morning I believe they were singing about in the musical Oklahoma. The kind of morning where you just know you are living the life you were born to live and while yes, you may still be "in progress," you are endlessly excited about who you are becoming.

I have to say though..., this Friday morning it was more than just excitement I was feeling. I was overflowing. It was so intense it was contagious. I walked into Starbucks after my workout and I could feel people feel the glow radiating off me and I could watch it spread across their faces as they passed.

I credit gratitude.

It was the emotion of gratitude that was having such a measurable, profound impact -- not only on me, but on those around me. Gratitude has that rare ability, and let me tell you, I was feeling it. I was grateful for my health, I was grateful for my mind, I was grateful for my mom and dad, alll my friends, I was grateful for the great parking spot in the busy Starbucks lot. I was grateful for the inspirational song that was blaring from my car stereo and for the fact that I sound so good when I sing in my car alone. I was grateful for the kids in the crosswalk, holding hands, walking to high school, not at all aware of the fact that they were holding up traffic.

I was completely overcome, smitten, with gratitude.

Nothing could bring me down.

Then, I had to make a left turn. It was a particularly tricky spot for a left hand turn because the traffic from the east comes pretty quick around a curve, leaving little time to react. From the west there are a lot of opportunities for cars to pull out of parking lots, breaking up the openings when traffic is stopped at the light.

I waited, patiently creeping a little bit further out so as to maximize my opportunity when it arose. Moments later, as if the universe had ordered it just for me, the stoplight turned red to the west and the road was empty to the east. I started to pull out, grateful to be claiming my place on the road, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a spotless-white-Buick screech out of one of the many parking lots between me and the stoplight.

In most cases, I would have gone anyway. The distance between me and the parking lot driveway was enough and would allow for it. However, the spotless-white-Buick had pulled out with such force, such speed, that I was certain it would smash into the side of my car (which has just been repaired from the hit it had taken two days earlier). At that speed, I didn't want to risk it.

Besides, must be some sort of gang member, robber or thief driving that vehicle. Only maniacs drove like that.

In the same instant I decided not to pull forward, the spotless-white-Buick slowed down to a crawl. And not like the baby-on-a-move, look how fast I am, kind of crawl. Rather, this was a -I'm crawling across the desert and haven't had any water in three days and I'm about to pass out or hallucinate- type of crawl. If I had known the spotless-white-Buick was going to take THIS long, I would have gone already.

Dammit.

I could feel the gratitude drain from my body. Then, as the spotless-white-Buick passed, I caught a glimpse of a little old lady, straining her neck to see over the steering wheel, curlers still in her hair. Behind her, from the west, was a stream of traffic three miles long, and from the east cars came around the curve like horses on a race track.

I. Was. SO. MAD.

Why did she have to pull out then? Why didn't she use her lead foot until she drove past me? Should I call the cops and have her pulled over for reckless driving --she was probably going 85 when she pulled out -- hey, Buicks go from 0 to 85 in .5 seconds ... I sat at that intersection for no fewer than 10 minutes (or so it felt), as I stewed in my own fury.

-----

In the book The Science of Getting Rich (one of my favorites) it says: in order to receive that which you seek in life – you must be in harmony with the universe. Deepak Chopra says the most effective way to get in touch with the universe is through gratitude. When you are in those moments of deep gratitude, that feeling that takes on a life of its own is your connection to the universe. And it is by means of this connection that you feel yourself as a field of infinite possibilities.

It makes sense. I was feeling it. We've all been there before; where our spirit and gratitude lifts us three feet off the ground. The only problem is I often feel like the child who got a balloon at Hardee's and as he walks out to the parking lot, holding that balloon he gets distracted - his mom calls his name, or his sister pushes him, and the balloon slips from his fingers and dances away across the sky. All he can do is stare, know that it's gone, and hope he can get his hands on another one soon.

I feel this way with my Gratitude at times.

However, in reality, we are not children. And we certainly are not helpless in those moments when gratitude escapes us. The most important thing is to (in honor of girl scout cookie month) always be prepared (I don't think the reference is quite right, but you get the meaning). For me, preparation means this:

-----

Since it appeared as though I would be sitting at that intersection for a while, I decided to take a trip. Travel back to a memory. In a moment's time I was standing right outside the San Diego airport. It was July, 2006. The sun was hot, and I could smell the ocean. I had never been to San Diego before but this trip was special for another reason; it was the first time Michael (my now-husband) had invited me to come. He lived there half the month and in Arizona the rest. At this point I wasn't sure WHAT we were; dating? exclusive? friends? I stood there at arrivals in my green dress from Target, my strappy sandals, and my blonde hair shifting nervously in the breeze.

When he arrived he told me we were going to Coronado Island-- where he grew up. I remember being so nervous I tried not to talk... when in doubt, don't.say.anything. The drive from the airport was beautiful as it wound through downtown. When we neared the bridge to cross the bay, I remember rolling down the window. The wind was wild. It was then that Michael reached across the console for my hand, and when he held it, I knew I was done.

In that moment, with the sun, the sea, the city, and Michael ... I felt gratitude so intense I couldn't breathe. And to this day, all it takes is that memory and I am right back where I need to be.

---

I will not say an "attitude of gratitude" is an easy thing to maintain. There are many ways we can be knocked off course. Unfortunately, for every moment where gratitude is lost, we waste a moment of greatness. So find a memory, a place, a person, a moment where you felt that connection beyond this earth, and let that memory guide you back to a grateful place.

---

Seconds later, I turned left, and continued down the road. Grateful.

"Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day. I've got a beautiful feeling, everything's going my way."

The Story of the Fancy Checks

When I was 14 a box arrived on our front doorstep for my mother. Actually, it was four small boxes wrapped in plain brown paper. Never judge a box by its wrapping. Inside the boxes were a great treasure.

Checks.

Not just any checks though. Not the plain, grayish colored, bank issued checks I was used to. No, these were the most amazing checks I had ever seen. They had four different images on them that rotated. A lush, green forest. A summer's day sky. The desert. The ocean. Now, I know that many children have some level of fascination with their parent's bank accounts, but mine had nothing to do with money. I LOVED those checks. I would sit and flip through them, one-by-one. Forest. Sky. Desert. Ocean. Forest. Sky. Desert. Ocean.Forest.Sky.Desert.Ocean. I dreamt of the day when I could get colorful checks.

One immediate issue: I had no bank account. At fourteen, I had no job therefore, no money therefore, no need for a bank account therefore no need for fancy checks.

But there was hope.
When I was 16, I got my first job.
With my first job, I earned my first money.
With my first money I was allowed to open my first checking account.
And with my first checking account ...

I remember the first question I asked my mother, as we walked out of the bank and back to the car:
"When can I choose my special checks?"

"Kindra, I didn't get special checks until I was forty."

Ug.

I know it sounds stupid. I know it sounds very "sixteen," but I was really bummed. I wanted those special checks. I didn't want to wait until I was forty. I thought I did everything I was supposed to do. I went through the steps. Didn't that mean I should get the thing I want? I was bummed and, a little embarrassed. Embarrassed I had been so foolish. Foolish to believe, to expect, that I could have fancy checks, especially at my young age. Obviously special checks were something you had to earn. Something you had to wait years, a lifetime, to have.

It was a quiet ride home from the bank.
-----

I was recently having an email conversation with a professional friend of mine whose opinion I greatly value. We were talking about diligence in pursuing your passion. As an extremely successful entrepreneur, he was offering me sound advice and perspective on the subject; what I'm doing well, where I might improve.

At one point in the conversation he said something to the effect of:
"I worked for 20 years and now I am finally pursuing my passion... it'll be exciting when you are able to pursue yours."

As ridiculous as it is, I was suddenly 16 again. And I was really bummed. I wanted to pursue my passion. I didn't want to have to wait 20 years (which would make me almost 50). I was bummed and, a little embarrassed. Embarrassed I had been so foolish. Foolish to believe, to expect, that I could have the success I wanted, especially at my "young" age. Obviously the career goals and lifestyle that I was seeking was something you had to wait a lifetime, to have. I was asking out of turn. Moving too fast. Expecting too much, too soon.

I was thinking about that email in the days following; how it made me feel, what I should do about it, and if I should back off the pursuit of my happiness. I tried to remember other times I have felt this way and how I handled it. That is when I remembered the "Fancy Check" incident, and what happened after I left the bank...

----

After that long, silent car ride home, I devised a plan. I knew I was a long way from forty and therefore a long way from special checks, however, I wanted to be prepared for when that day came. So, every Sunday morning I would shake the pages of the paper until the 'check ad' came loose - you know the ad. The one with hundreds of check options printed on it -- Garfield, Mickey, hearts, flowers, other nature images... This of course drove my father crazy because it got the paper all messy, but I didn't care. I would stare at this advertisement every Sunday morning, analyzing the designs, debating which one I would want when I was forty.

Then I started saving the ads, pulling them out of the drawer in my night table before I went to sleep. Eventually, I started comparing the check companies -- who offered more checks for a better price? What were the check trends from week to week, month to month? Which checks came with the most free stuff: return labels, checkbook cases, stickers with the letter K in fancy script?

Finally, I started doing the math. How much money would I have to save before I was able to buy the fancy checks ... And that's when I realized...

Fancy checks weren't that expensive.

Really. I could work one afternoon at the Drive-In Restaurant and earn enough for 10 boxes of them. Which begged the question, if the expense of the checks wasn't the reason for the "Not til you're Forty" barrier... what was?

In the end, there really was no better answer than :Forty was some invisible line my mother had drawn based on her own experience and passed on to me:. It was MY decision whether or not I wanted to adopt this barrier, this time marker, this belief - for myself.

I decided I didn't want to.

By the end of the summer, at the age of 16, and after careful deliberation, I had ordered my first round of fancy checks. There were four different patterns. Not the nature-scapes like my mom's, but instead crayons. Lots of different colored lines drawn with crayons. When those four plain brown wrapped boxes came to my door, it was the best day of my life (that week).
-----

Now, many years (and many more checkbooks) later, I am empowered by the behavior of an earlier me. When given a imaginary timeline, I quickly realized that, while that particular timeline worked for someone else, I didn't have to accept it as my own. I made conscious, measured steps in the direction that I wanted to go and soon realized that my time had come much earlier than the "other timelines" would have led me to believe. I decided to apply that same principle to my current situation.

I will become aware of and remove any irrelevant barriers from my path that have been placed there by others (even if their intentions were pure). I will make conscious, measured steps in the direction I want to go until I get there. I don't want to wait twenty years to pursue my passion. If it takes twenty years, then that's how long it takes -- but not because I'm walking someone else's timeline. The only thing that will determine how long it takes is ME. Therefore, because I still greatly value the thoughts of my friend, I have decided to pay more attention to the second half of his statement (which is what I believe he intended to begin with)... "It'll be exciting when you are able to pursue yours."

Ladies and gentlemen, the pursuit has begun.
It is very exciting.
----

Sadly, while fancy checks are more or less a thing of the past, I vaguely remember one other timeline my mother imposed upon me: She didn't get her first speeding ticket until she was 42.
I still have never been pulled over.
Hey, I have no problem following timelines I like.