On Two Dollar Bills – A Review

I often feel the adage: “life’s all about the journey,” is treated more as an excuse than a practice.

"We’re running late, but does it matter? We’re with family. It’s about the journey anyway."

"We came all this way and left with nothing? So what, at least we had the trip."

I’m guilty of it often. I even found myself last Friday saying, “it didn’t work out, but think about the story.” I pitched that because, quite frankly, it was the only thing to say that would end what was amounting to an important, yet still fruitless, argument.

It was a moment in which I said the wrong thing at the right time. It made me realize that I was frustrated and struggling with the same question. The same problem of, we did all this... so... now what. The same issue of “well, what’s the point.”

I was asking myself that question, despite having answered it to dozens of people throughout the day, and I found myself frustrated with the popular (and my own) response.

Then, two days later, it all kind of came crashing down. I finally found the solace in what I was looking for.

It started with a story. But to tell it, I need to go back a few days.

See, anyone who’s reading this probably already knows that my Grandmother was diagnosed with cancer a few weeks ago. And most of you probably know that she passed away Friday morning.

I got to see her plenty of times before she went. And I got to say everything I hoped to too. I don’t want this to be another lament, because anyone who met her already knows the genuine kindness that she shared with the world. She was, like most grandmas, special. And I’m so pleased to have had her in my life.

During her final weeks, nothing was easy. Getting her to eat, to speak, to laugh became a responsibility that her whole family took on. It was no surprise that this is what cancer is capable of.

It also, should be no surprise, if you know my family, that we didn’t care what cancer thought or wanted. We fought for every damn thing my Grandma could ask for, even at our own expense.

It’s easy, especially in grief, to be caught up in the final days and see all the misery that comes with disease and its complications. Just as easy as it is to have your vacation sidelined by a rainstorm, or a trip to a park delayed due to traffic, or to pick up dinner only to find out they forgot the fries.

But none of these things represent the journey in full. None of those are even a slice on the cosmic scale of action and reaction. Cancer is not the end of my Grandma’s story. It is not even mentioned in her final chapters. It isn’t even a stain on the cover or dust on her jacket.

This stems from an idea that is not new and that is not mine. We all know the power of “paying it forward” and the butterfly effect, and even if we don’t use those terms we all have felt the tidal-wave-changes and how it can shake a person. Because here-and-now you are reading a blog based on a challenge; based on a company; based on an urge to write; based on a pedagogy; based on a belief system; based on a family; based on my father, my mother, and their mothers, and probably their mother’s mothers and so on and so forth.

While many players are dead, with names that are now family trivia or hidden secrets, their legacy exists in... well literally everything. But you’ve probably figured that out already.

I was about this far in my untangling when I found myself reading a story someone shared about my Grandmother’s impact on her life. Someone I’d never heard of.

Someone that my grandmother took in and treated like a daughter. And the effect my grandmother had on her and her son. And she wrote this beautiful story of how on holidays and her son’s birthday, my grandmother would send this woman’s son cheesy holiday cards. And how every card came with a two-dollar bill. And how he had forty of them by now, despite neither her or her son having seen my grandmother in quite some time.

This story caught me off guard. I was having a particularly rough time, sitting in LAX after running between gates and breaking my glasses, questioning why I try so hard if life’s going to throw curve balls at me.

See, my grandmother sent me the two-dollar bill cards too. She also sent them to my brother. And my cousins. And, well, WHO KNOWS who else.

(If you’re wondering why she sent them. It was twofold. One, she thought they might be worth something one day, and two, she just kind of liked them).

Here, I was reminded of the immense gratitude my grandmother gave away freely.

Here, I was reminded of my own last words to her. Of how fantastic she is. And how much her own brand of kindness shaped who I am today. And just how freaking important she is.
I said those words to her, meaning them. Knowing them deeply. And yet once she was gone, I still managed to struggle with a “so what?”

And then there I was falling endlessly again into the answer: gratitude.

So many points in my life have me wrapping my mind around this word. Have me living within it.

Gratitude is not a philosophy. It isn’t even really an action. It’s only a reaction. But one that manages to move the whole world forward.

Well, at least my whole world.

My grandmother lived humbly and with immense gratitude. I never saw her without it. She was a listener and good one. She was truly kind. And while I still grieve the world’s loss. I am so glad, she shared that wonderful spark with so much of the world.

Thank you, as always, for reading. Have a great new year.