A family of four was dining at a steakhouse. They asked to be moved to a different table after a family was seated near them who had a child with Down’s Syndrome. Their request was granted. But a few minutes later they told the waiter, “special needs kids should be kept in special places”, and the waiter refused to serve them after that, so they left. Details here.
I’m smiling right now. I’m smiling and my heart feels warm and happy and I am glad to be alive, glad to be right here, right now. But I’m also feeling an open kind of wistful sadness. I’m feeling the turning of the earth and our inevitable forward motion—forward, the only direction we can move through the river of time. The office is buzzing this morning. Buzz, buzz. So many things going on. The sun rises, the sun sets. We do the dance together—the dance of business. What can I do for you? What can you do for me? Let’s make a deal. We dance together for somewhere between eight and ten hours every day. Then we go home. When we get home, there are other dances we do. We make dinner. We hug. We make music and we sing. Each evening’s activities, each family game of Scrabble, each shared moment, each kiss is its own song, and it echoes through the room for a few brief moments after we stop, and then it dies. Or does it? Does the sound of our singing really die? Or is it recorded somewhere? Absorbed into the halls of the universe, and someday we will be able to hear it all again—all the songs we sang, all the dances we danced, all the love we gave, all at once—in one warm burst that resonates with our true heart. Will we recognize our song, when it’s played back to us? Will our hearts shine like diamonds when they hear the sound? And will our loved ones recognize the song as ours and sing it with us? I hope so.