"I can imagine no more comfortable frame of mind for the conduct of life than a humorous resignation."
When your day starts with this view, you just know it can only get better from here.
"Here", of course, being the Wingate Hotel, adjacent to Detroit-Wayne County Airport.
Last night, a little after midnight, I found myself here after Delta postponed my flight until this morning. I raged and railed, mostly in my own head and in texts to poor P. I vowed to rent a car and drive through the night to Corning. Except there were no available rental cars. Delta had beaten me. Resigned, I slunk to the Wingate, a clean but decidedly working class establishment where the room features a card listing the prices they'll charge against your credit card for whatever items, such as towels or water glasses, you steal on your way out.
The shuttle into the airport was packed, Delta having done this to lots of other folks last night. At the wheel was some manner of wiry Arab, about my age, shouting at another Arab into a walkie talkie in a strange mash-up of Arabic and English as he wove through traffic, a torrent of phlegmy foreign syllables with an occasional "THREE" or "PISS" or some other English word thrown in for flavor.
So here I am back at the Sky Club, washing down a rubbery cheese omelet with a second bloody mary, my depositions today cancelled as a courtesy from opposing counsel, who took pity on my predicament as Delta started announcing delays to this already very delayed flight. All in, from airport drop-off at ECP to crawling out of the uber in Corning, it'll be 23 hours getting home. I could've driven it faster.
But I've tried to lean into the blessing of having a little time to think, to think about what's important in life and the things we value beyond their real worth. This morning I ran across an essay by Charles Blow, one of my favorite NYT columnists, about the realization that he, still far younger than me, is what he used to view as "old".
Here's a non-paywalled link:
The milestones hit home--racing back to where he grew up when his mother suffered a stroke, watching an eldest son turn thirty and thinking what he was doing at that age, going from an "uncle" to an "elder". Yep, that's all happening. And his point is well-taken that there aren't that many summers left, and it's more important to embrace this moment and hold P's hand than to spend a Sunday, as I did two days ago, sitting in my windowless office drafting pleadings and letters.
So there's that.
I also ran across a wonderful prayer a couple days ago that needs to find its way into my routine. If you're a Roman Catholic you may have already heard it. Called the "Prayer for Good Humor", it was written by one of my favorite of the Renaissance thinkers, Sir (St.) Thomas More. The prayer seems to fit this moment because it embraces and expresses gratitude for the quotidian, for life as it is, which is the only life we get:
Grant me, O Lord, good digestion, and also something to digest.
Grant me a healthy body, and the necessary good humor to maintain it.
Grant me a simple soul that knows to treasure all that is good
and that doesn’t frighten easily at the sight of evil,
but rather finds the means to put things back in their place.
Give me a soul that knows not boredom, grumblings, sighs and laments,
nor excess of stress, because of that obstructing thing called “I.”
Grant me, O Lord, a sense of good humor.
Allow me the grace to be able to take a joke to discover in life a bit of joy,
and to be able to share it with others.
Amen brother.
So no boredom, grumblings, sighs and laments. Soon I'll find my way out of this Sky Club to my gate, and soon thereafter I'll hold P's hand in my favorite place on earth. And my night spent at DTW will end up as another funny story.
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