Greasy Vans and the Patience of Job

I wrote not long ago about a meeting I attended where a few new people shared stories about how irritated and frustrated they were at the minor irritations and frustrations encountered in day to day living that - if they keep slogging away and trudging onward in their spiritual  growth - they won't find nearly as irritating and frustrating in the future.  My inclination is to point out how much time they're wasting, how much emotional energy they're expending, on matters that won't mean anything in short order.  You know: spouses trying our patience or car troubles or unpleasant customers, that sort of thing. but even then I try to be as kind as possible, realizing that alcoholics are experts at blowing mouse-sized problems into elephant-sized problems, and when you're new this is a lot easier to do.  Instead, I try to find an experience in my experiential repertoire that shows how lovely this peaceful progression is.  Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, sometimes real fucking slowly.

I was waiting at a crosswalk preparing to cross a busy street a few days ago.  If you've never been to Southern California you may not be familiar with our busy streets here.  Apparently no road has ever been built that has fewer than ninety lanes.  It's not unusual for an intersection to have three left turn lanes - three! - and for the walk signs to allow you thirty seconds to cross the street - thirty! - while you experience a mild sense of panic watching the counter approach zero while you're still crossing the street, the brisk pace you think you're maintaining apparently not as brisk as you think.  In other words you don't not cross a street against the light, even if there are no cars approaching.  They can materialize out of nowhere.  

Anyway, An old, beater van pulls up next to me in the right lane - one of those lanes that permit you to continue forward or to turn right so unless the car is using a turn signal you are sort of in the dark.  There's a lot of shit piled up on the dashboard and I can see through the greasy windowshield that the driver is texting, so when the light changes and the little strolling man glyph pops up on the crosswalk sign across the street, I don't budge an inch, trying to peer through the murk to catch the driver's eye.  My sole aim is to not get run over.  This was SoCal pedestrian survival mode and not any kind of testosterone-fueled challenge to the driver.  Apperently the ne'er-do-well driving interpreted this as aggressive judgment on my part so he rolled down his window and shouted something at me along the lines of "slow" or "stupid" or some other "S" word.  Frankly, it takes about an hour to get across one of these super-roads so I had no interest in stopping mid-walk to argue with him or explain myself.  Even more frankly, it bothered me not a bit.  In fact, I recall giggling a little.  It is now in my DNA to slough off the impatience that once impelled me into an argument or an obscene gesture.  I was in no way, shape, or form bothered by this grease-ball and I'm just joking when I use that word: who knows what kind of tough life this man is enduring?  Pretty tough from the shape of his vehicle.

This is how I absorbed the message of Right Living when I was getting sober.  Show me what you did and not what I should do.