WHEN YOU’RE SMILING
 
 
                                         It’s not the happy who are thankful,
                                                            it’s the thankful who are happy.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        — unknown
 
 
 Before the AGE of COVID-19, the spirit of aloha, though not well understood on the mainland, had undergone a general decline. Paupers were on the outs. Being poor was a shame, beggars deserved a frown at best; there’s no excuse, said the money in someone else’s pocket.

Out of that bleak, pre-COVID-19 world, however, I was treated to a marvel of the human spirit. I suspect the truth behind this phenomenon will out someday, that the recognition of this capacity to emote more beautifully will become just a matter of unfolding of a natural instinct.

As wonders and special messengers may not be the ones you see coming, and surprises come from out of the blue, I was about to witness the most sincere and genuine form of gratefulness I’d ever seen—also the most revealing.
The first of these incidents took place in a car on a tropical island. I’d just pulled into the only lane leading to the drive-up window of a local bank; two kids in back, one in front.

Long and slow, maybe a dozen cars backed up, I spotted her right away. Was this a payday, I wondered? Smart, maybe?  Bold, for sure—solicit money just moments before donors could replenish their cash.
She approached every car.  I watched and waited my turn. The rebuffs were swift. Most windows rolled up before she could speak. I made up my mind to be more polite. She’s human; down on her luck, respect’s still due.
I must not have had loose change; I don’t remember having bills to hand over either (it could have been awkward if I had). I must have thought at the time that the little white Suzuki hatchback wasn’t in position to help her cause. Sad, but that’s the way it had to be.

A quick, impromptu discussion with the kids had just begun when she showed up, right there, peeking in our open windows. After acknowledging the two children in the back and one riding shotgun, she turned her attention to me. 
Pleasantly surprised by the quality of her smile, the shock came from her request. She wasn’t after money.
She asked for a cigarette.

It was what she needed. Maybe it would help. I knew how it could. Despite a few protests from the back seat, out of my own habituated abundance, primed for one myself, I produced the cigarette.
She looked, then sought some faraway horizon*—but quickly returned to spy the cigarette. Apparently convinced that my fingers held the real deal, she took it and smiled at me.
She smiled Her smile! While looking at me . . . her smile! One became two! Her whole face glowed! What was going on? Magical, divine—like none I’d ever seen.
Her eyes spangled stars.

Unreal! A perfectly fine smile had transformed into the most excellent display of happy gratitude man or saint has ever conceived. What it meant to me, and surely what the pauper queen meant to say by smiling it, was to say, Thank you. Thank you and thank you—I really mean it. You made my day a special place, a happy place for me to be. 
I’d just witnessed the most exalted smile I’d ever seen! Her day became my day! What was I for that? Happy me! Her happy had put on such an obvious happy smile it almost looked cartoonish—innocently inspired. Because she was so vigorously happy, I was happier too. It’s possible I’d been as happy as she sometime, but I’d never flashed, even felt such a smile. Did she feel it coming on? Unstoppable, it seemed, the second smile. Being so close to that kind of gratitude-inspired joy was something new entirely.

After communing with the faraway horizon, * she turned to me and blessed me with the smile impossible to forget: grateful, grateful.  I know what I gave, but not what she received. In some small way I hope she saw in my returning smile a ray of her own reflection.
 
* (Years later I would come to realize that the “daze” I thought she was in, the looking away to some faraway horizon wasn’t due to disbelief at all. She wasn’t doubting what she saw, but . . .. Jumping Jehoshaphat! She wasn’t disbelieving—she was giving thanks!)
 
                                                  A large heart can be filled with very little.”
                                                                                                                    — Antonio Porschia (1886-1968)
 
Decades passed before seeing this phenomenon again (which I later thought to be a “smile within a smile”—not a piling on of another, but a drawing out of what is there, already). Once in a lifetime could have sufficed for me, but to reinforce the significance of the first sighting, I suppose, once more I would be treated to authentic gratefulness:  the Heavenly Smile.

The second time it happened, it wasn’t on a tropical island, but on the mainland, thousands of miles away, near the geographical center of the United States. In a state harboring the poorest county in the country, my son, grandson and I took a trip its second largest city. We walked through a downtown alley.
Word had already gotten out. In a state with fewer than a million residents, big time city stuff had finally arrived. The alley was developing a reputation. Local news had picked it up. Editorial reviews were positive. Letters to the Editor, a platform for public opinion, glowed and glowered. Smack in the heart of downtown, a social experiment was acting out.

Downtown merchants had been opposed from the beginning. Panhandling had increased over recent months. Obviously, those weren’t people who would become legitimate customers. Monitoring for potential shoplifting was going to require extra diligence. If more “vagrant artist types” were allowed to loiter downtown, typical clientele would be scared off. That would mean lost revenue, fewer taxes available to the city.

But, as far as the traditional art gallery owners were concerned, the idea of the city playing host to the kinds of people who thought graffiti to be a form of art, the idea of an art alley, sloppy and absurd as it could be, was a definite non-starter.  No graffiti alley.Some folks kept at it. For many reasons, it made sense. An altered city code allowed for “Art Alley” to be an exception to the rule, plus—it contained a provision designed to assuage concerns expressed by outspoken businesses.

Stopgap measures were in place. Artists could paint a section, but a provision made it clear:  . . . provided that individual artwork be displayed for one week only. Then it must be defaced.  
Artwork could be displayed for one week—then it had to go. If the artist failed to paint over their work when their time was up, that would be it—no more welcome arms for them. In that case, the person next in line would inherit the job.

If the time came when local artists had had their fill, or if art in America came to an end due to a well-engineered pandemic (for instance), so no “next” on the list existed, not totally unlike the game of musical chairs where the last one sitting down wins, the last graffiti art might get an additional airing—but not for long. As a last resort, by law, the city would be obligated to remove all traces of graffiti in that location. Art Alley could go back to being an ordinary alley again.

That wasn’t likely to happen. There was no turning back.  Businesses began opening their doors on weekends. That’s why we’d come, to see what it was all about. It wasn’t a long walk, just a city block. We sauntered. Raw and rough, graffiti was designed to withstand the elements. Unlike its mobile counterparts on rail cars, brick walls weren’t going anywhere. Art Alley was full of sitting ducks. In a week’s time, they’d be gone, as if they never existed. This preconceived plan brought to mind the unsettling destiny of Buddhist sand paintings. Incredibly intricate geometric patterns composed of grains of colored sand received their moment of glory, but once the devotees reached a stage where not one more grain of sand was necessary for the entire project to be complete, if the whole agreed, “It is finished”—simultaneously it signaled the imminent destruction of all the painstaking work. The masterpiece would be obliterated.

Such is the ephemeral glory of life, Buddhist sand paintings, and the newly instituted, Art Alley.

The similarity with sand paintings falls away at that point. Sand paintings are usually geometrical designs constructed on a flat, horizontal surface. To paint a section of alleyway art required the graffiti artist bring a ladder. Anyone so equipped, once the number was called as next on the list, could take a shot. One week. One creation.

“May I buy a cigarette from you?” Inconspicuously seated to the side, I hadn’t noticed him until he spoke.
I hadn’t quit smoking yet. He could tell. I tucked mine between my lips and pulled out the ubiquitous pack. He dug into his pockets for change. I popped up a smoke. His coins could purchase several.
I offered the cigarette, gratis.

Yes, the stranger was quite grateful and he did produce an honest smile. Standing at the end of the alley, we smoked and made some talk. Pointing to a long black streaky glob on one section of the wall, the Lakota explained: “It’s an ancient prophecy. Since ancient of days, the presence of the black snake symbolizes a coming catastrophe. Today, people believe it has something to do with oil and water.”
We agreed. The construction of a pipeline across sacred land, especially if posing an endangerment to water, the source of life, was beginning to rouse nationwide sensibilities. It wasn’t over yet.
Lacking the ethnicity to commiserate in kind, about all I could do was to peel off a few of my favorite lyrical bits from a compact disc I’d purchased a few years earlier. One lyric, true as ever, had a nightmarish, haunting quality to it:
 
So much has changed. So much has changed. The last hundred-fifty years have really been strange.
“Sounds like a protest song,” he said, hearing me out.
It was. It was about the “rez” and loss of identity too. He was a nice man. We parted. I didn’t know then, but I’d see him again.

An hour or so later, after finally relenting to a persistent, long-denied desire to purchase a print by an artist who painted in a style I enjoyed most, that of realism with a deep understanding of spirit, I made the purchase. It was the last one they had.

I carried “The Last Buffalo Hunt” out of the store. Outside, seated on a bench with a few companions was the person I’d shared a smoke with in Art Alley.  As we approached, a man much younger than the others got up. He appeared agitated. Trying to shake whatever ill-manners might still be clinging to his person, without getting in our face, apologetically and in a mild, low tone, he asked if we might be able to spare some change—“ . . . anything at all,” he added.  

He was desperate. Maybe all he wanted was to buy a cup of coffee. 

Having just made a purchase costing far more than a pocketful of change on a print that probably bore a fair resemblance to the plight of his ancestors . . . hesitation on my part was nonexistent or die.   
I handed over whatever change my pocket held. As rabbit caught off guard, the startle was great.  Instincts relaxed. The heft from the coins was tangible.

“Thank you!” was his sentiment to me. Smiling from his heart, he reached for my hand.   
(Pre-coronavirus days, though too often a divisive, disenchanting era, had some quaint intimacies too; handshakes being one.) We shook hands. I failed to see it coming. 

Then it happened. 

Augmenting the initial smile, another merged with it. 

I’d seen it once before as a younger man—the smile within a smile.
Shocked with delight, surprised by the favor of seeing it happen once again, the overall effect was beautiful. Grand. Beautiful. Grand. “Thank you!” he said with a pitch almost fit for song. He meant to make the sentiment live beyond the present.

Already overwhelmed, but standing, I almost turned to see if I could see the far horizon.  
“Thank you!” he said again. He hung on. Sight traveled from his eyes to mine. Noble had found me out; his character, like an arrow, struck my core dead on. “Thank you! Thank you!” was his refrain. Until his gaze was sure I’d seen the truth and my ears had heard, he wasn’t letting go. He wanted to make sure I got it.

I got it.

Great gratitude and lucky me, like the big birds that ride the winds, I took a moment more to soar with him.  In his handshake and demeanor, if anything had been clear at that moment, it was his sincerity. He meant every cent, and said it with his spirit.

Later, as I spoke to my son and grandson about what I’d seen, about what was so unusual and surprising, expressions of gladness for my experience were prompt and sincere, but as every individual knows, to be fully appreciated requires someone else wear your shoes, walk the paths you walked. Experience is key.

Understanding was a process—and there it was again.

Twice I’d seen from what depths smiles arise. By virtue of some benevolent grace, the beggars and I had been restored to a place that felt like home. Heartfelt gratitude had come back.
                                                                                 
                                                                                        *

. . . when the coronavirus goes away for good.”--that was the way the story was supposed to end.
Taking my cue from the media, putting a human-interest cap on the shtick, we’re all in this together, seemed an uplifting way to end the story.
Finding the silver lining oftentimes helps. That’s what the media showed us: people reaching out from city balconies, hearing the single trumpet sounding taps . . . and  . . . now what’s wrong? We’re all in this together. Be grateful for something. Get happy. That’s how it was supposed to go.

But, for the umpteen millions of small business owners and laid-off workers, the invisible WMD, the ghostly coronavirus, compared to the loss of a livelihood, could only be assessed on an individual basis. In one ransacking swoop, insecurity was assured. There’s the message: We’re all in this together. Except we’re not.

But, let’s pretend. We’re in this together. Riots and lootings and burning buildings don’t show the way to go, but no handcuffed person should die from a knee sticking in his neck. No, for the revolution, it wouldn’t feel right to try to put a gloss on crime. Put lipstick on a pig and looks worse. I really was hoping, though, that maybe good would come of the pandemic. A verse Christians might quote has to do with “all good things come to those . . .”—but that could take time to sort out. There’s still hope.

I had some hope the untouchables had been humbled, but the world is swimming with isolated islands. The quarantine, I thought, might present an opportunity for individual reflection. Though social distancing had us in a huddle more virtual than real, for a species nearly gone extinct (semi-joke), I could project the jolt to reunite would prevail, that the virus had done its work on earth. The change of heart was just what we needed to give us a new start. The shock to a degraded world, near death (joke) before the pandemic, would give us a needed “wake up call,” a chance to reboot. I believed if we’d be so blessedly lucky, maybe aloha, in all its myriad aspects, would remain long after the coronavirus went away for good.
​
That was the intended ending.
 
                                                                                          *
Just in: the government awarded a firm with the ready technology to inject a vaccine loaded with a microchip with a multi-million dollar contract. Revelation: maybe now its time to worry.

                                                                                          *
I lied. In the beginning, I’d not just implied, but stated directly, that in a pre-COVID-19 world, things were “bleak.” They weren’t so bleak—at least for me. Spotty, maybe, but not bleak.
That’s the honest truth.

A pre-COVID -19 world can arouse pleasant memories by the mere fact that it excludes the virus. Count your blessings. I would look for, recognize and trust signs of favor. By being grateful, happiness would show up sometime too. Thankful for that appreciation, even if a compromise, and for the astounding smiles, those personalities with gems for eyes that played the major role in this story, it only seems right to credit them with the eternity they deserve:
 
 
           “The little things are what is eternal, and the rest, all the rest, is brevity, extreme brevity.”
                                                                                                                                                             --  Antonio Porschia (1886-1968)