A Regular Day in Vienna

The kids both wake up later than intended and I suppose if I'm being honest, I probably did too. I pack four snack boxes, for two morning snacks and two afternoon snacks. Normally, I'd hope that they would pack their own backpacks but knowing that there won't be enough time, I need to do it. I prepare two breakfasts, I lay out two sets of clothes and normally I'd want them to get themselves dressed, but again knowing the time crunch, I need to do that too. I try my very very best not to push them, not to pass on my stress, not to lose my patience or my cool unnecessarily. How terrible is it if we are late for school one day? It's not worth the sadness and defeat that would inevitably arise if I snap at them. But still, I try to rush them along; to encourage them; to coax them. And eventually all three of us are dressed and ready to walk out the door. We arrive at the tram stop. We wait the 6 minutes that the monitor says it will take for the tram to come and as soon as the six minutes expires, another eight minutes mysteriously appears. Dammit. We're going to be late anyway. We go back to the house, pick up their scooters and rush all the way to school. After I drop them off, I remember I need to go to the grocery store, but I can't remember what I have to buy and meanwhile my head is churning.

It goes something like this:

"I know I wanted to get rice crackers and pretzels but what else..."

And then it goes like this: "I wonder why my friend didn't call me to check in on me after I sent that message? She must have known I felt vulnerable."

And then like this: "That is so weird how everyone was invited yesterday but me."

And then like this: "Am I even prepared for this call, which is now in only 45 minutes?"

I feel frazzled, frenzied, all over the place, torpedoed with stress.

I walk into the grocery store, remembering that I need to buy snacks for the snack boxes tomorrow, knowing that it's inching toward ten o clock, wondering if all this rushing is really natural and empathizing with people who decide to homeschool. Exiting the grocery store, I begin to walk toward home. And as I'm walking, I notice my feet, purposefully, intentionally; I notice them making contact with the pavement. In fact, I direct all of my attention toward my feet making contact with the pavement. And I start to breathe.

The next one arrives quickly: "Why the heck didn't she invite me?"

Gently, I return my attention to the sensation of my feet on the pavement. And I breathe.

Then the next one: "This is so boring. I don't want to think about my feet on the pavement."

Gently, I return my attention to the sensation of my feet on the pavement. And I breathe.

"I hate these shoes. I definitely need new shoes."

Gently, I return my attention to the sensation of my feet on the pavement. And I breathe.

With this breath, my shoulders drop a little. I had been holding them upwards, pulled toward my ears. I notice that my body is housing a feeling of sadness.

Gently, I return my attention to the sensation of my feet on the pavement. And I breathe.

As I continue to walk home, I know this is why I have a practice. And I know this is what my practice is for.

***

As I arrive at our apartment, I enter the kitchen, only to be greeted by a colossal mess to clean up, including cereal scattered all over the floor. After retrieving the dust pan, I fall to my knees, to sweep it up and tears begin to fall down my face. Indeed, sadness has made its way to the surface. After I finish sweeping and crying, I splash water on my face, and open the computer, preparing for the conversation about to take place.

"At least I slept well last night," the voice inside my head tells me.

This is a different kind of thought, a glimmer of hope, almost like gratitude.

The 10am conversation goes well, and I feel composed after the morning's chaos, but still like I need a bit of mental space. I consider moving into seated meditation but the sun is shining, I need some exercise and to buy new shoes, not for me of course, but for the kids, which is often how it goes as a parent. I decide to go out for another walk. The heaviness of the morning has passed and my mind is ready for a new perspective.

The next one arrives like this: "Perhaps it isn't just me in need of comfort. Maybe my friend needs some too and I'm the one who should see how she's doing."

And then another: "Maybe she didn't invite me because she's also overwhelmed and just forgot.

And then another: "Even if not, it's not my job to control other people's choices."

As I continue to walk on, a man suddenly approaches me, speaking in rapid German.

"Can you say it in English?" I ask him. It's clear he will be asking me for money and under normal circumstances I would likely keep walking. But today is different. Recently, in our meditation class, we agreed to carry out an act of kindness before the last session. As part of that commitment, I have decided that for this week, I will give money to anyone who asks me for it. Moreover, I will leave them with a final thought: "Du bist schon" or "You are beautiful." Saying it in English would feel too vulnerable, but saying it in German feels yes, weird, but also ok.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes, I do. I have no job," he says. Because I already know I will give him money, it's a completely different experience than when someone usually asks. I am open, receptive. I have time to pause, to look him in the eyes, to really see him. I believe him. But even if not, it wouldn't matter. I have already made a commitment, and he shows up right on time. I greet him with open arms, almost as if it were he offering me the favor.

"Well, let me see what I have for you," I say as naturally as if he had asked for a kleenex. Opening my wallet, I realize I don't have much change so I take out my last five euro bill, look him straight in the eyes, and say, "Du bist schon."

He walks away. It feels completely bizarre, a little awkward, a little exhilarating and at the same time, like just a regular day in Vienna. That night we all somehow manage to all be in bed early. But more importantly, we also wake up early the next morning. It's another day to do it all over again.