Will and I have discovered certain phrases that help us to make sense of our lives, enabling us to cope with what comes our way. I marvel at how now, in our 80s, we take in stride circumstances that years earlier would have made us tense and miserable and left us at odds. Those phrases have become a generous language we share.
Last week, driving to the local Cinemart to see La Bohème broadcast live from the Met, we encountered construction and a blocked-off road. The detour required a tricky tight turn. I held my breath, hoping Will would slow down, worried he might not.
“Lentement et doucement toutes choses s’arrangent,” Will said. This has become our mantra for driving challenges and other delicate operations. Slowly and gently, all things arrange themselves. In essence, remember to slow down and take it easy. If you’re patient and take time to consider all sorts of possibilities, things will work out. I’d had no need to worry.
I thought of the comfort I found in that phrase while Will was driving, but also in other situations that appear unresolved, where I’m not feeling in control. I often repeat it to myself when I’m the driver. This is especially important for me, because I’m someone who often acts abruptly, without thinking—an early therapist said I was “precipitous.” Despite my best intentions, I do things like hit “send” the second I finish typing an important email, before I notice the typos. Or I’ll immediately turn onto a street because the GPS voice says “turn right,” without taking stock of the whole scene and the fact that the street has the wrong name and the next one is where I should have turned.
The humbling reality of aging has taught us to attend to the present and the goodness around us. Sayings we dismissed as trite in our youth reappear with new weight.
Flex and Innovate has become our everyday mantra. We discovered it not long after we moved, about six years ago. Now we live much closer to our children and grandchildren and interact more often. We face the reality that life is full and busy, and it’s multiplied many times over as more people are involved. Plans don’t always work out, timing can be off, and misunderstandings occur through nobody’s fault. With an underlying assumption that we’re all acting in good faith—that everyone is doing their best—when those misunderstandings and unexpected things happen, we’ve learned to wait to see what unfolds and adjust as needed.
A week after the opera, we were on our way to the dress rehearsal for our chorus’s fall concert with the symphony. The venue was a chapel on a college campus we weren’t familiar with. We approached the college in the dark. Translating directions from Waze, I told Will to turn onto what was in fact not College Street but College Street Extension. “Extension” was written in smaller letters under the street name, which I recognized as we rounded the corner. What looked like a chapel in the dark appeared not far across the main street. Will grabbed a last open space on the short extension. We crowed together about his mysterious ability to find parking spaces when there appear to be none left, then grabbed our music bags and headed toward the spire.
Biting cold wind whipped around us in the dark. Warmed by our smug satisfaction, we pushed forward. Building after building turned out not to be the chapel. Walking on, we realized we had still not found the entrance arch that identified the abbey on our map. Our ears froze in the chilly wind, while the likelihood of making our 7:30 call on time slipped away, yet neither of us complained.
Hurrying in the direction of the arch and the chapel, we passed rows of available parking spaces on campus. I flirted with feeling annoyed at the false victory of finding a last parking space, but I let it go. I wondered what Will was thinking. Was he berating himself for his choice? I hoped not.
As it turned out, we weren’t late after all.
Three hours later, tired but exhilarated, we emerged from rehearsal into a cold night. We crossed the street with many others heading into the large public parking lot directly across from the arch. We left them there.
Live and learn.
Walking on and on, block after block, through the cold, back to where we’d left the car, Will and I chatted about singing, our conductor and the orchestra, the music’s historic context, and what parts we liked best. In time, we came to the bank of storefronts and found our parked car on the College Street Extension.
“Flex and Innovate,” I chirped as we buckled ourselves into our seats. Will smiled and reached for my hand. Holding fast for a moment, he paused before starting the car, “Flex and Innovate.”
