joi, 24 mai 2012

Bucura-te ca te enervezi

Pentru cacaturi.


Atunci cind un om traieste o adevarata tragedie imi imaginez ca nu mai vede lucrurile marunte, ca te loveste asa ca o durere de ciocan in moalele capului, ca nu mai traiesti, ca simti doar durerea.


Eu cred ca sunt fericita pentru ca MA BUCUR CA SUNT VIE, nu e greu sa te bucuri de fiecare lucru marunt care te inconjoara. Dimineata, cand m-am trezit pentru al doilea examen m-am bucurat de apa, de zambet, de soare, de iepurasii pe care i-am vazut in curtea caminului, de muzica care m-a binedispus si totul a mers foarte bine. 


Asa ca bucura-te cand iti moare motorul masinii, cand nu-ti iese ceva, cand te enerveaza cate-un dobitoc, cand ai pierdut ceva important, cand ploua si tu planuiai sa alergi pe plaja, cand n-ai bani sa-ti iei i phone sa fii si tu in rand cu tot omu'. Bucura-te. Da, bucura-te, nu m-am tampit de tot. Bucura-te pentru orice cacat care ti se intampla. Ca viata asta-i ACUM. Nu MAINE, nu dupa ce termini sesiunea, nu dupa ce te muti in Asia, NU. ACUM. Si pentru fiecare ora pe care-o pierzi, ai sa plangi. Pentru ca nu ti-o da nimeni inapoi. 


 "These are the things we beg for. A root canal, an I.R.S. audit, coffee spilled on our clothes. When the really terrible things happen, we start begging the god we don't believe in to bring back the little horrors, and take away this. It seems quaint now, doesn't it? The flood in the kitchen, the poison oak, the fight that leaves you shaking with rage. Would it've helped if we could see what else was coming? Would we have known that those were the best moments of our lives?"- Meredith Grey.


Alea sa fie problemele noastre. Ca ploua, ca nu ai pantofi, ca ai de invatat, ca uneori nu e asa cum vrem sa fie....


Va rog din suflet s-aveti rabdare 2 minute sa cititi un textulet. L-am gasit pe Facebook si era descris ca "a sweet lesson". It would call it hard, though, sau oricum altcumva, dar nu sweet. Poate bitter. Va rog, merita.



A NYC Taxi driver wrote:

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. 'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
box filled with photos and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive
through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly..

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice..'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired.Let's go now'.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I said

'You have to make a living,' she answered.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut.It was the sound of the closing of a life..

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day,I could hardly talk.What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

6 comentarii:

Cyanilla Latte spunea...

minunata povestea.chiar e sweet

Lady*izuH spunea...

Nice!:)

Cris-Mary spunea...

Frumos! SI da sunt de acord cu tine..trebuie sa ne bucuram de fiecare clipa.. mereu!

Cristina Cioba spunea...

@cyanilla-e superba...ma bucur ca ti-a placut!

Cristina Cioba spunea...

@ladyizuh- merci!:)

Cristina Cioba spunea...

@cris mary- cata dreptate ai, ar fi bine s-o si facem mereu...