I step off the bus at Crabtree Valley Mall at 9 on a Wednesday morning, the first leg of a thrilling and possibly overwhelming day. I'm amazed at the ease with which this passes.
Inevitably, on the mornings when my entrepreneurial spirit is in full swing, the universe sets before me the one CAT bus that isn't wheelchair accessible.
Not so this day. I roll off the lift into the bus terminal relieved, yet not entirely convinced that I will still arrive at my first meeting at 11 with time to spare. I'm on the next bus within minutes and am surprised that I could be an hour and a half early to my destination.
Nearing my bus stop, I reach to tap the padded yellow rectangle, on a newly cleaned CAT bus, to signify my stop is coming up. The tone sounds as my hand makes contact with the pad. In a fit of spasmodic excitement, my right arm flails skyward, catching my wedding band beneath the edge of my joystick, and slipping it off my finger.
I gasp as the ring plummets to the floor and rolls behind the locking mechanism for the wheelchair. I look around. Did the other passengers see what fell? As the driver removes the tie-downs from my wheelchair, I attempt to explain what I dropped and where. He does not understand. The excitement of the moment makes my diaphragm contract and in turn diminishes my breath. I manage a deep breath and connect my intent to my words one syllable at a time. Still, they don't understand.
It's not medical
The natural reaction of anyone who struggles to understand someone with a disability, for better or worse, is to assume there is a medical issue.
I manage to assure them that my use of a wheelchair does not automatically require a "Fragile: Handle With Care" label to be plastered to my forehead, and I repeat myself until they realize that I've dropped something.
Several minutes pass and the driver and another passenger hunt for an unknown object, guessing at what it might be. Finally, the driver finds the ring on the floor and, assuming that by its shape and size it is a part of my wheelchair, proceeds to attempt attaching it to my wheelchair's undercarriage. I tell him to place it back on my finger, and he does; he seemed unfazed.
And as soon as the ring is on my finger, off I go. I step into the sunlight from the bus, sigh and feel the stress of the moment begin to dissolve in the warmth. I notice that despite what has just happened, the feeling in my being is still one of lightness and joy.
So often in our culture of overstimulation, simple distractions - and some that perhaps aren't so simple - draw us away from our goals. Whether it's that one poorly timed call from a friend in the midst of a nonemergency, the looming nag of an uninspiring project, or just the daily bombardment of email, most are distractions that do need to be dealt with.
At the same time, we must find a way to maintain a clear and unwavering focus on the greater vision of where we're heading. For me this ability to cut through the fog of distraction arises most strongly in laughter.
I giggle.
Years ago this cluster of events would have led to an irreversible frustration. But in this moment, I take note of my progress and grin.
