I was on my way to the register to pay for my stuff – just a few common items like toilet paper and cleaning supplies that I had stopped to buy on my way home from the garden. About ten steps from the register a burgundy blur in my periphery caught my attention. I turned to look and saw an older man wearing a burgundy shirt. He was slowly pushing one of the store’s small baskets, shuffling his feet forward, and pulling a rollator behind him. Judging by his effort one might have assumed he was pushing a plow through rocky soil while pulling a golf cart. I heard him breathing from the opposite end of the aisle. I turned my basket and began walking toward him. In the time it would have taken me to walk from the photo area to the pharmacy he had taken three steps, pushing, shuffling, pulling and pausing to breathe.

  Less than an hour before seeing this man, I had been clumsily making a live video on social media while watering the garden. I quickly discovered that both endeavors would be done better if I did one at a time so I put the hose down and finished the video, then finished watering. As I walked toward the man I noticed how his thin, gray hair was sweat-glued to his forehead. I heard how his breathing sounded –  like he had been working in a coal mine while running a marathon. I wished he could have done one thing at a time – push the cart or pull the rollator. Hours later as I sat on my patio, writing in my journal, I wondered if he had walked to the store in the heat and humidity of a New Orleans morning.

I approached him and asked if he needed help, a silly question. He didn’t answer. He looked at me for a few seconds, long enough to make me question whether or not he understood what I said, but I knew he understood. He inhaled and said, “No. I’m okay.” Then I realized he had to catch his breath before he could answer.  I smiled and replied, “Okay,” then stepped aside, lingering a few yards away from him. He pushed, shuffled, pulled, paused, and took another deep breath. Then he pulled the rollator closer to him and dropped down onto the seat. Not looking directly at him, I hoped he had put the brakes on before sitting/dropping down. His shuffle made me question the strength of his knees. His labored breathing told me that his strength was limited. He wasn’t a small man but he was frail. Had the rollator rolled back, even a few inches, I was certain that he wouldn’t have been able to stay balanced and stop himself from falling onto the floor.

  I looked directly at him again. Finally seated, he looked relieved. His expression reminded me of how I feel when I flop into bed, exhausted, after a long, busy day. He sat, clutching a list in his left hand, looking up at the shelves. I approached again.

  “Sir, I could reach something for you.” He turned toward me, gray eyes peering through thick lenses. He took a deep breath, looked up again, and asked for Welch’s grape jelly. It was on the top shelf. I placed it in his basket and waited. He was quiet. I was quiet. He looked around. I looked around. We were behaving like children at a middle school dance. Seeing part of the list in his hand, I said, “You have peanut butter on your list. What kind do you want?” He pointed and said, “Uh, yes, that creamy one please.” I put it next to the jelly and asked, “Do you want whole milk, two percent or?” He interrupted and said, “Two percent. A gallon please.” I walked two aisles over to the refrigerators and returned with his milk. He asked for lemon juice, which I looked for but didn’t find. When I returned he was standing. I couldn’t see the list anymore so I asked if there was anything else.

  “A gallon of water. Distilled.” As I walked down the adjacent aisle I found myself feeling relieved – assuming that the distilled water was for his oxygen concentrator – assuming that he could at least breathe well while at home. I grabbed a bottle and headed back toward him. I was surprised to find that he had met me at the end of the aisle. I put the water in his basket and waited, wondering if that was all he needed. He thanked me as he pushed, shuffled, pulled and paused toward the next aisle. He moved faster than when I first saw him. I don’t know what I said to him. God bless you? Have a blessed day? Something about a blessing. I picked up a few more items, checked out and went home, intending to add to what I had started writing the night before.

  My husband and I had been in bed. He was watching the last game of the NBA finals. I was writing about people that I loved who had died. That morning while looking at journal entries from 2017, I came across what I had written the day after learning my uncle Frank had died. I had also mentioned my aunt Sandy, who died earlier that year, as well as my maternal grandparents and my paternal great-grandmother. While my husband talked to the Raptors and the Warriors as if they could hear him, I wrote about the elders who loved me. It wasn’t long before our son came in and sat in front of the television, soon followed by our oldest daughter. They talked to me more than they watched the game. I was sleepy and easily distracted so I put the journal down and made a mental note to send a written note to my only remaining grandparent, Grandma Jean. I was asleep before the children left the room.

When I got home from the store I put everything away, refilled my water bottle and went to my patio to pick up where I left off. First I wrote my note to Grandma Jean. Then, when I tried to write about my loved ones, I couldn’t stop thinking about Leah Chase (an iconic creole chef who recently died), Dr. John (Malcolm John Rebennack, a quintessential musician who also recently died) and the old man in the burgundy shirt. Mrs. Chase and Mr. Rebennack were known worldwide and especially beloved in New Orleans so I remembered all kinds of general information about their lives.

I thought about him again on Saturday night and realized that he and I have a few things in common. For years I’ve been pushing my career forward, shuffling my life to get a few steps ahead while pulling my family along. I rarely paused but when I did it was often out of sheer exhaustion. During those brief pauses I’d always keep one hand on my work and the other on my family, taking the quickest of breaths before trudging forward. Then trying hard to maneuver the aisles of my existence without bumping into anything. There were times when, feeling weak and short of breath, I flopped down on my family, depending on them to bear my weight until I could stand again. People offered help but I didn’t always accept it, certain that I could do it myself no matter the cost. Nonetheless I was glad to take assistance when people recognized clues, figured out what I needed and handled it.

Now I’m beginning to understand that I don’t have to push my career or pull my family. I don’t have to be stuck in the middle, weary and dragging. That struggle is not meant for me. I’m here to create, assist, educate, empathize, encourage, enhance, share, serve and stabilize. I’m here to build and I don’t have to follow anyone else’s blueprint. I’m gaining balance as I learn to let go. I’m not going to continue on the path of the gentleman in burgundy. I’m building. I’m resting as often as needed. I’m taking care of myself and my children are happier! I’m creating. I’m finding new ways to serve. I’m doing things for my husband that I once had no time to do. All the while, I’m seeking, finding and developing balance. My days of pushing and shuffling and pulling are over. What about you?