It was a cheap t-shirt, vaguely French looking, from H & M or something. I bought it just after Christmas in 2014, newly repatriated from a year at art school in the UK. I gave the balance of my giftcard to my sister, a sure sign that I was emotionally adrift. It wasn’t just the culture shock. I had recently self-published my first novel, and I was weary of the constant marketing game. It was winter, and I still hadn’t processed the violent death a few months earlier of a passing acquaintance. My composure, my sureness about much of anything seemed non-existent. The shirt remained, however, and as cheap t-shirts are known to do, sprouted a couple of tiny holes almost immediately. I embroidered hearts over them, my first foray, perhaps, into wearing my heart on my sleeve in a most literal sense. Fast-forward a couple of years. I was better, I thought. I was working, and I was on the lowest dosage of anti-depressants I had ever been. I wore the heart t-shirt sometimes. I loved what it represented. I loved the idea of love, being imbued with it, feeling it for myself, for others. Then February in Ohio hit, and I was on zero antidepressants, and I found that I alternately felt too much and nothing at all.
I’ve always been a plotter, a big-picture thinker, hungrily snatching for whatever next step I thought would propel me into a space that fulfilled me in whatever ways the present moment could not. I had initially taken the job as a cashier at a local, hipster supermarket with the intention of using all of my intellectual energy to work on my second novel, clawing at the future as a way of not absorbing the past or present. I found, a bit to my surprise, that I loved the work. While repetitive, I interacted with hundreds of interesting characters each day. I got to know the people who came in regularly. The few moments allotted to each transaction became, for me, a challenging exercise in making infinitesimal differences in people’s days. An “unimportant” job would be my saving grace. Medicated for chronic depression since the age of fifteen, that February reintroduced me to the reality of chemical imbalance. I couldn’t necessarily rely on my intellect to save me; my grand plans for the future became overwhelming or anxiety-producing. The prospect of getting through an entire hour had the ability to send me reeling into thoughts of inadequacy and sadness. The prospect of getting through the next two minutes with the next customer was manageable, even when the night before I hadn’t been able to fall asleep without crying, even when that morning I had felt physically unable to eat.
There is no way to describe those days other than that I got through them. I felt everything, all the time, all at once. I got back on medication, and after a few weeks I started to feel like eating again, and I could process thought at my “normal” rate. I remain, however, indebted to the hundreds of people who came through my checkout line each day, some of whom I now call friends, some of whom I couldn’t pick out of a crowd. Having to examine my own vulnerability in a visceral and ongoing way forced me to choose compassion again and again, both for myself and others. Each transaction became, for me, what a course in Miracles calls a “holy instant.” I was constantly inspired by the difference I felt in customers when I remembered something they had told me a week ago, when I made eye contact, or smiled, or said something stupid and flippant just to get a laugh. I don’t mean to give the impression that I approached each interaction with some great strategy; my only strategy was to reach a space where neither the customer nor myself felt isolated or alone by the time the receipt printed. Just by setting the intention to learn from or be touched by the individuals who crossed my path, I was gradually changed. I became someone who before, had found power completely in planning, and setting huge goals, and working relentlessly toward them with no regard to whether all of this was serving me or making me happy. From time to time, I would ask myself why I was there, in a fairly low-level customer service position, when I had a Master’s degree and the capacity for something much more intellectually challenging. And, from somewhere within the recesses of my mind, the same answer always returned to me: loving people became more important.
After moving from cashier to Marketing Director in a matter of months, the new year began with the unexpected news that I would be laid off; nothing to do with my job performance, I was told. purely financial. For a minute, I felt myself in the space I had occupied before the heart t-shirt. Lost, confused, alone. Interactions with former customers, friends, and family quickly set me straight. holy instants arrived at my feet through texts, phone calls, Facebook messages, hugs, coffees, meals, and smiles. I’m not unlucky. I’m the luckiest person in the world, because I am being shown again and again that situations we think break us are simply providing space for love to show up in our lives. I think I still have the t-shirt somewhere, I’m not entirely sure. What is clearer to me, what I know unwaveringly, is that I no longer need it. My heart, its vulnerability, and the beauty that comes with sharing that and having others share themselves with me, is on display every day that I make the choice to live moment by moment. Love has ceased to be just an idea that I hunger for. It has become a way of life.
Author: Anna Beach
Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: Anna Beach is a Columbus, OH-based writer who is currently shilling life visions for individuals via Kickstarter. Anna received a B.A. in Interdisciplinary Studies (Focus: Environmental Policy) from Wittenberg University, and an M.A. in Applied Imagination in the Creative Industries (Focus: Use of Vulnerability and Sharing in the Marketing of Contemporary Fiction) from Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design. She wrote and published a novel, she has a solid background in outreach and fundraising, has a good working knowledge of environmental issues especially as they relate to sustainable food systems, and loves anything creative. She bakes cakes. She wears a lot of black. She likes life better when it is slightly absurd. She is passionate about telling stories. She wants to connect with you.
Link to social media or website: http://kck.st/2iBTsd8
