Expecting

[anotherDan]

I found myself (if I can call it that) sitting across from a kindly gentleman, in what could only be described as a perfect office. By "perfect," I mean it was comfortable, elegant in style and scale, yet nothing intruded on the senses. There were no question-begging photographs or egocentric art, nothing to distract from the task at hand.

I felt disembodied and yet very present. I didn’t know who "I" was. I remember thinking briefly about it as Jeffrey—I’d guess he was in his fifties—looked at me with gentle patience. Perhaps I was in a psychiatrist’s office, I thought, and was under some kind of drug. It didn’t matter. I felt safe. I needn’t figure it out now.

Jeffrey asked me if I wanted to be born male or female. As odd as it seems now, I didn’t at the time find it a strange question. Rather, I answered with surprising certainty, "Female." He made a note.

"Now, tell me what is important to you. I don’t want to suggest any categories or lead you in any way. I want you to have full control over this. Just go with stream-of-consciousness for now." He looked at me over the top of his glasses.

Again, it seems strange, but I was quite forward with my answer.

"I want to be pretty."

"Pretty? How pretty?"

"As pretty as possible."

I saw the faintest look of concern on Jeffrey’s face. Asking for "pretty" is pretty vain, I thought to myself. Maybe I should have said I wanted to be wise—wise, and then pretty.

"There is a down side to being pretty, you know."

"Like what?"

"Well, a pretty girl may wonder if her friends—and especially her suitors—really love her for her whole self, rather than for her looks. She may be an object to them, a prize."

"Yes," I said, "I can see that."

"It’s like the guy who says, first thing, that he wants to be rich and/or successful. A lot of people who are in fact rich find themselves with a lot of friends, (his tone indicated quotation marks) and pursuers, but the rich man is wary of them. He’s often not quite sure why they are so friendly—even the sincere ones, who love him for what he is, and not just because he’s rich."

"I follow you, but are you saying I might be better off if I choose to be homely?"

"That’s entirely up to you. There is nothing wrong with being pretty." I studied him. He returned my gaze, it seemed, without a trace of insincerity—no defenses, no masks. I felt that he was for me.

I went on, "I also want to be wise."

"In what way do you want to be wise? Describe the kind of wisdom you want to have."

"I want to be able to tell when people are sincere, so I don’t get myself into trouble."

He waited, as if to allow me to go on, but I wanted his feedback.

"A better term for that would be discernment," he said simply.

"Yes. Discernment."

"Very good." He made a note.

"Is there a downside to discernment?"

"Not that comes to mind."

"Shall I go on?

"Please."

"I want to be comfortable. Not rich, but comfortable."

"Why not rich?" he said, and smiled.

I looked at him, knowingly. His smile broadened.

"I also want to have a good husband, and a family."

Jeffrey stopped taking notes, and looked up.

"Essentially, we’re working on what you’d like to be." He said, gently. "What you are will determine the type of mate you’ll choose later—and who might choose you."

"I see." I thought a minute. "But I can choose to be comfortable, financially?"

"Not really. It’s a bit complicated. You’ll get the hang of it as we go along. You’ll feel it in here." He pointed to his stomach. "Someone else might have said they wanted to be a hard worker, faithful, a person of integrity, and frugal. That would pretty much assure that they would be comfortable. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yes."

"You have all the time in the world."

"What if I said I wanted to be happy?"

"Would it be all right if you were born with Downs Syndrome?"

I looked at him in shock. He was not joking.

"Of course not!" I exploded. I waited for a reaction, but he remained steady, and gentle. I then said in a more normal tone of voice, "That would pretty much negate being pretty, wouldn’t it?"

"Not necessarily," he replied.

At this point I began to feel a little panicky. Looking back at this, I marvel that I even continued the conversation, but nothing seemed more natural to me at the time. This was my destiny we were talking about!

"I want to start over." I thought a moment. "Once we’re done, I get the feeling that a lot of blanks are filled in based on my choices… and they all seem to be filled in with what you call the down-sides." I meant this as a question.

"Well, yes… but there are also many ‘up-sides,’ if you will, that may fill in the blanks."

"I’m happy to hear that." My expression conveyed wry humor, and Jeffrey joined me in a smile. I went on, "What if I said I wanted to be poor. Might there be some up-sides to that?"

"Certainly. And some down-sides, of course."

He had been right. I could not cognitively get a handle on what was happening, but I was catching on by the feel of things. It felt similar to that moment in my childhood when dad was teaching me to ride a bike, and he had just let go of me. The theory was one thing, but the experience another.

I began to review the lives of others I have known. I saw so much heartache, even among people I admired—especially among the gifted! And I saw ‘lucky’ buffoons, and good people taken advantage of. I suppose I thought of these things for about ten minutes without a word to Jeffrey. My eyes were closed.

I thought I’d better check to see if I was inconveniencing him, but when I opened my eyes, there he was, looking at me without a trace of impatience or distraction. I had all the time in the world. I thought of a man in the news who had won the lottery, and had a lot of money stolen from him. He seemed to be a complete azz —a pathetic soul. I thought of the Kennedys, and of O.J. Simpson. I thought of Jesus... I took my time. I thought of my Grandma Lois.

"I want to be pure of heart."

"We’re starting over?" Jeffrey asked, with a faint smile.

"Yes."

"People will take advantage of you."

"I know."

"Okay. Pure of heart." He turned a page, and made a note. "What else?"

"I don’t care how I look. I don’t care if I’m male or female."

"No, you’ll have to choose that."

"Okay. Female. And I want to be dependable, without guile, and tender-hearted."

"Okay." He was writing.

"I want to be poor."

He stopped writing and raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure? Do you want to be destitute?"

My gut and my mind were fighting with one another. I wanted to say ‘yes,’ but I couldn’t, and I couldn’t tell if it was my mind or my gut that wanted to say ‘no,’ nor why that might matter.

I finally replied, "No, I’m not sure."

"Then let’s just leave that for now." he said, reassuringly. "Do you want to define ‘pure of heart’?"

"No. My head is swimming!" I felt dizzy and weak. My heart was racing; I could hear it, almost, in my ears.

"It’s okay. Don’t worry about it." Then, reassuringly, "Let’s take a break. Would you like to get some lunch or take a walk by yourself in the park?" He motioned out the window. "I’ll be here when you get back. Take all the time you like."

"No, I’m okay. I want to go on. But can I ask a question?"

"Certainly. Anything you like."

I needed to know. "Is there any justice in the world?"

"Oh my, yes." he said without hesitation. "Justice and mercy aplenty—both."

"Good." Again, this seems strange in retrospect, but at the time I felt I could just take him at his word. There were both mercy and justice in the world. Period. End of query.

"I want to be understanding, patient, quick to hear and slow to speak, trustworthy."

"How about frugal and hard working?" he said. Now he was joking.

"I’m in charge here, right?" I said firmly.

"Right." He said, and with a look of mock humility, jotted his notes. "…and trustworthy."

He put down his pen. "You want to be a virtuous person."

"I do. Is there a downside to that?"

"Well, some people will admire you. But some will despise you."

"Yes."

"And some will envy you."

"And that will be their problem, right?"

"Yes. But you will not be immune from suffering as a result of your virtue." He was perfectly serious, and I knew it.

"So be it." I said firmly. I felt an impulse to reach across the desk and grasp Jeffrey’s hands in gratitude, and felt perfectly at liberty to do so, and as I did, I found myself reaching across the bed towards my husband. Morning light was streaming through the sheer curtains, and the normal smells of the linens, my home, and my husband were at first comforting, but then I remembered where I "was" a moment ago.

Then I felt upset that I didn’t have time to finish my instructions. I felt indignant and cheated. Jeffrey said I had all the time in the world! I walked into the kitchen and pushed the button on the coffeemaker. My normal life was continuing. Silly dream!

Looking out the kitchen window, I began to think of my day, but as I made my way back to the bedroom, the details of my dream came back to me in sharp focus, and not just the thoughts, but the feelings.

"What a crazy dream," I said to my husband, who was stirring.

"What was it about?" he asked. (He loves me; he was always interested.)

I sat on the side of the bed, the details of my dream still coming to me. "It frustrated me so much, except for one thing. I’m glad I asked the question, ‘Is there justice in the world?’ and the answer was, ‘Yes. There is justice and mercy aplenty—both.’" I stood up and walked toward the door. "I’ll be right back. Want some coffee?"

"Uh huh." I left the room.

Then he called after me. "I’ll have some justice and mercy, too!"

I returned with two mugs of fresh coffee. Tom turned on his side, propping up his head with one hand, while reaching for the coffee with the other. He sipped gratefully. I sat beside him, and sipped from my cup.

"Do you think I’m pretty?" I asked, and looked into his eyes.

"Are you kidding? You are drop-dead gorgeous!" He said, and started to pull me towards him. Coffee was sloshing around dangerously. I pulled away, giving him the ‘not now’ look. I was serious. I started crying; I don’t know why. Tom said nothing. He put down his coffee and squeezed the back of my neck just as I like it, and ‘did nice’ on my back, waiting.

"I don’t really care if I’m pretty." I said.

"Well, you are. You are the prettiest girl in the world."

I looked at him through my tears. Suddenly, my dream forgotten, I realized more fully what this morning was to be about. The coffee was doing its work. I’d waited up for Tom last night, but he got in very late, and I’d fallen asleep on the couch.

His face came into clearer focus for a moment, and then blurred again as my tears started again. I willed them to stop, and smiled broadly at Tom. "We’re going to have a baby," I said, a little too breezily. Tom’s hand stopped moving on my back, and a look of awe came over him.

"It’s positive?" he asked, quietly. I nodded.

Edited September 5, 2007 by anotherDan

[Abigail]

Dan, that was beautiful and inspiring. Thanks for sharing it, I hope you will share more.

[RainbowsGirl]

Dan,

That was beautiful...A heart melter. I hope it is someones true story!

[anotherDan]

Abi, I don't have any more. It was a one-off I wrote last year. Very unusual for me. Thanks, though!