Finding grace

Sandra Bullock, the actress, executed one grand emotional swan dive in recent days:   profession's highest honor on March 7th .... gratuitous, ongoing, public humiliation starting on the 17th. 

Has anyone thought about Sandra Bullock's Oscar in the past 3 weeks? I don't like thinking about what she is, herself, thinking or feeling. This (bad pun) blind side seems particularly cruel.

So.  I had an experience of this sort yesterday.

Thanks to the largesse of a co-worker, I was gifted 2 free tickets to the 2010 opener at Fenway Park. Bleacher seats on the first-base line. Versus the Yankees. A rabid Red-Sox friend (C-2) to enjoy it with.  A 65-degree, breezeless evening. Pedro throwing the first pitch.  Youkilis and Pedroia propelling the home team from behind, twice.  Steve Tyler surprise in the 7th-inning stretch. Neil Diamond surprise in the 8th. Papelbon's "Shipping Up to Boston" keeping the full house on their feet for 5 minutes.  The victory. 

(And all this on Easter, no less.  Glorious singing and worship in the morning.  A gloriously rich party of Austrian wine and Hungarian feasting in the afternoon with 50 friends. Followed by 5 hours with Red Sox nation followed by more Guinness and conversation with C-2. Very nice.)

Just after 2 a.m. I rolled back into Southie, parked the car, and got out to discover both the front door of my apartment building and the front door of my apartment ajar.  And not left that way by me.

I retreated to the street to dial 911. The cops appeared (5 of them, striding manfully!) to lead the way in ... and as the doors had predicted, my apartment had been rightly sacked.

Laptop computer (also predictably) gone. Wine rack (curiously) pilfered of its 3 cheap bottles.  Non-plentiful jewelry cache (also curiously) pilfered, including Cobber ring.  Blue cloth napkins from last week's birthday dinner scattered over the bedroom floor. Stock of square-cut pillar candles removed.  Every drawer open.  Every purse and bag from the closet on the bed, one with lining sliced through. Window open. Patio door open.

Serious downer.

(Not of Sandra-Bullock proportions.  But in my world?  Slightly precipitous.  Those clean, unironed napkins, a stray left in the building foyer, caught on his/her shoe? Somehow scooped up with the candles? Someone scooped up my candles? What the hell?)

Something about those f#$%ing dinner napkins seemed the greatest violation.

The cops stayed for 15 minutes. When they left, it felt not right to start righting things. The only thing to do was sit on the sofa, still in Red Sox t-shirt and cap, overhead lights glaring, staring at the open liquor cabinet with its knocked-over bottle of Peppermint Schnapps, searching for some sort of grace.

With relief, I soon identified some. The fast response of the BPD.  The cats who, rather than wandering out into the night, soon emerged from under the bed.  The (again, curiously) neglected stereo unit and brand-new bicycle.  The good-night's sleep I soon eked out, even if it didn't start until 3:45 a.m.

And, it goes without saying, the very good day that preceded it -- that, even while making the bad stand in stark relief, also proved to be the barrier against panic, against further fear, against irrational anger:

Jesus arose. The Sox beat the Yankees.  The cats emerged.  Guinness still rocks.

Screw the laptop.