There’s an old song most often credited to Bing Crosby and other crooner’s a bit before my time titled “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep”.  I prefer to hear Diana Krall sing it and my favorite of her versions is just her playing piano and singing:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JeftvZPsXeY 

The lyrics of the song are: 

When I’m worried and I can’t sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep, counting my blessings

When my bankroll is gettin’ small
I think of when I had none at all
And I fall asleep, counting my blessings

I think about a nursery
And I picture curly heads
And one by one I count them
As they slumber in their beds

If you’re worried and you can’t sleep
Just count your blessings instead of sheep
And you’ll fall asleep counting your blessings.

I had a living reminder over the weekend of the blessings I have to count.  It can be sobering observing another person’s difficulty but also a solid reminder of one’s own good fortune. 

A friend and I were visiting an antique shop in a small town outside the city where we live.  There was a print from the 1920’s I took a fancy to and decided to buy if I could improve the asking amount a little.  I asked the man behind the register what the best price was and he said I would need to talk to the proprietor who he went to get.  

The owner was summoned out of the back of the store and very, very slowly he made his way to the front leaning heavily on a cane.  The sluggish pace of his movement gave me time to study him.  What I saw was an old man probably near 70 years-old who looked older than his years.  He did not look healthy.  It was distressing for me to watch him grimace with pain with each step.  There is a gray-ish color that comes upon the face of someone seriously ill and he was painted with it.  

The owner made me a fair deal on the print and in conversation I learned knee replacement surgery had not gone well and he was in a great deal of pain along with some other unnamed health issues.  He sensed my taste might be similar to his based on the print I purchased.  We were invited to the back of the store to see some “really good stuff that was not for sale”.  

I expected we’d end up in a storeroom and instead found myself walking through a door and into the man’s bedroom.  Through the bedroom we continued and entered into a combination living room and kitchen, all dimly lit.  The place was well lived in but was not a mess.  The bed was unmade and there were things lying about.  Yet there seemed to be some general organization to the clutter.  

Once in his “living room” with some difficulty he plopped down on a Queen Anne type love seat.  Our host started to point out several art deco pieces I had noticed as soon as we entered the room.  He was correct about me loving that type art from the 1920’s and 30’s.  

It is my strong suspicion the shop owner has few personal visitors.  I think he is lonely.  While he was in obvious pain, he seemed to enjoy greatly the half hour he spent with us.  His face would light up when he pointed to another deco piece as he began to tell us about its story and pedigree.  His collection contained several quite valuable pieces of types I have never seen up close before.  I enjoyed hearing about each one.  I think he would have preferred to visit with us longer but it was clear the moving around had brought increased pain which he acknowledged to us.  He said he needed to rest.  

As I emerged back into the main store, I was struck with a sadness that matched the murky light in owners two room home in the back of the store.  Thoughts rushed in asking:  Why did he live alone?  How did he come to be here? Why was there not someone to take care of him?  Was there no better place else where he could recuperate?  Was he as depressed as he appeared?  And so on….

As we began the drive home I thought of the shop owner hobbling along.  Over his gray pallor I clearly saw an expressionless sadness that seemed to keep him from making much eye contact.  I sensed he was fearful that someone who looked directly into his eyes could see the source of the pain he preferred to keep hidden.  Even this morning I feel sad for him. 

I have no idea what the shop owner’s story is, but meeting him reminded me how blessed I am with good health, a caring son, friends to take care of me, more than two rooms to live in and so much more.  I am very grateful.  From the weekend experience I gained a renewed perspective of gratefulness and a soft spot for the “old man” who owns the store.  I know I will visit again soon.  

The capacity to give one’s attention to a sufferer is a very rare and difficult thing; it is almost a miracle; it is a miracle.  Simone Weil