BORNWAPS

As I walked up to the massive entrance of Costco yesterday, a list of requested items from my cousin in my hand, I couldn’t help but be keenly aware of the bustling scene unfolding before me; the cacophony of voices and the bustling shopping frenzy was only par for the course. Families congregated around towering stacks of product, their carts crammed full with both essential and non essential items.  They chatted and maneuvered their way through the aisles. Parents, their phone screens illuminated- we now live in an era where shopping lists are stored on our phones-  perused the endless aisles for their weekly groceries and household supplies; meanwhile kids, left to their own devices, tried to fit in, as many treats as they could, into the already overflowing carts.  Families guided their cumbersome carts down the congested aisles, each one piled high with bulk items, their children’s squealing laughter, reverberated off the warehouse walls. Couples pushed tandem carts, each mounded so high, they eclipsed the shoppers themselves. I observed this quintessential American scene of bountifulness, and thought to myself, “What an abundance of excess we live in. Ours is truly the land of plenty.”

For a moment, I paused, absorbing the pandemonium, reflecting on the scene in the parking lot, as I arrived. After all, the chore of maneuvering through a parking lot, filled with wayward carts, can be quite the nuisance. I noticed, in particular, how a frustrated driver, had to alight from his car, to move a cart that was obstructing his way. His visible annoyance mirrored my thoughts.  

Then, I reminded myself why I was in the store in the first place; thinking about my cousin, who can no longer partake in these ordinary, yet crucial aspects of our lives. I pushed on, my eyes instinctively searched the shelves for his familiar protein bars, his Starbucks coffee, and the exact brand and quantity of paper towels – the one he swears by, immersing myself into the rhythm of his life that was now missing from his own grasp, now dependent on me for his most basic necessities. It was a strange dance indeed, this act of caring and love, placed in the cart silently, under a vow to keep him comfortable, in his life, now dominated by a cruel disease.

I have often heard people wax poetic about humanity, about the ties that bind us, about being a global village. But where was that sense of unity, the collective empathy, when my friend’s world was turning upside down on Oct 7? Such reflections made the hustle and bustle of the shoppers seem inconsequential. The noise, the chaos, it all seemed so trivial, in comparison to the magnitude of grief and loss in people’s lives.

The sheer randomness of it all was terrifying. In my head, it was like playing a grim lottery, where nobody wants to win. Life was going about as usual, and then suddenly, it wasn’t. One day you’re planning a vacation, and the next, you’re planning a funeral. It was that fragile, that brittle, that unpredictable.

I looked down at my cart, at items that represented everyday life.  Suddenly, they seemed like a luxury. The certainty of tomorrow, the ability to plan for the week ahead, these were privileges that could be ripped away without a moment’s notice.  As I left Costco, the hubbub fading behind me, I realized that perhaps the minutiae of life wasn’t trivial after all. The ordinary held its own value, something we all too often take for granted. It’s the everyday gestures, the routine care for others, that can bring a modicum of comfort and stability, in a world that often seems dangerously unpredictable.

In the end, we’re all navigating the aisles of life together – sometimes pushing a full cart, sometimes an empty one, but always a part of this human collective, bound by the connections, however subtle, that we share with each other.

Even I was tempted to abandon my cart, in the tangle of carts, haphazardly abandoned, by other shoppers, on the grass verge. “Everyone does it,” I thought. Almost instantly, guilt washed over me. Avi, my friend’s late husband, had passed away while trying to help others. He had been ambushed by terrorists when he was tending to the wounded and now, he would never walk again; never push a grocery cart across a parking lot again.  Never see his children to adulthood.

And then there was my cousin, who can no longer walk or even stand on his own, due to ALS, a slow, vicious disease that has ruthlessly stripped him of his motor abilities. Knowing he would give anything to be able to walk around a store like this, I resolved not to take my own capabilities for granted.

So, I unloaded my vehicle and hauled the shopping cart all the way back inside the store. Not for myself, but for my Cousin and for Avi.

It’s a small act, but it’s an act that I am privileged enough to perform. I can park far away from the store and walk the distance, feeling the ground beneath me, the strength in my muscles, and the rhythm of my heartbeat. I am not confined, restricted or impeded in my movement. This is a privilege that I often forget to acknowledge, and for that, I am truly grateful.  And yet, it is these seemingly insignificant acts that often have the greatest impact. Just like returning a shopping cart to its rightful place, these small acts of kindness, and consideration, weave together the tapestry of our lives. They may seem trivial, but in reality, they play a paramount role in shaping our existence and connecting us to the world around us.