What are the chances I'll see you again? (Musings from Crash)

In the afternoon, I had tea with an old friend who called me elegant.

Later, Salsa dancing with the man in the black shirt and the Asian man
who who surprised me with a lead as light as a feather, I actually
felt elegant.

I came home to an unexpected gift in my mail, a book that begins:
"Are there any wholly useless encounters? I know this: there are no
insignificant people. There is no one who isn't supposed to be
there." (Hugh Prather, Notes on Love and Courage) It was a gift of
love and courage, bringing both into my life.

Finally, an administrator replies to my email regarding unfinished
paperwork. It is curt. Her father was diagnosed with cancer, but she
will get on the paperwork. I encourage her, as I learned with my
mother's illness, to remember work is just work, to take care of
herself and her father first. She later said this gave her the
courage to tell her boss, to unburden herself of added stress of
trying pretending all is normal.

In Blink, Malcolm Gladwell writes about facial expressions. They,
apparently, are universal expressions of our unconscious emotions.
And, just as in yoga, I can work out emotions by physically working
parts of my body, so, apparently, I can change my attitude by changing
my expression.

Likewise, there is a part of our unconscious that is locked to our
awareness, yet operates in the blink of an eye. Stereotypes of others
and ourselves come through. The flinch that flashes across our face,
for example, when the first day the student struts in, arms swinging
past his baggy pants hanging down and the faux diamond studs
sparkling. He might not be able to read words, but he can read my
face and catches that flinch, that instant, that blink when the
teacher thinks, "Here is my problem student," no matter how much we
all want to think we are there to give everyone a chance.

Crash, a beautifully written and edited film.

Maybe this movie is a bit of an exaggeration of the deep-rooted racism
and danger stewing under the glamour of LA. Maybe it says what is
which remains unsaid too often behind the locked door of our
unconscious mind, a reminder of that you never really know the other
person's story unless you take the time listen, to open your eyes, to
blink more slowly.