I take an apple to school everyday. I usually eat it in the car on the way home, and it’s always a Granny Smith. I used to buy different kinds of apples, but the occasional mealy apple really grossed me out. Don’t even get me started on the disappointment I’ve suffered from oh-too-many Red Delicious apples. Gradually, Cortlands, Golden Delicious and Fuji have given way to the consistently crisp, tart and juicy Granny Smiths.

Last week after a walk on the beach, my husband suggested going grocery shopping at Shaw’s instead of at Hannaford. Now, as you may have guessed from the above apple revelation, I’m a creature of habit. I prefer my regular routines. I tend to drive the same route, load the dishwasher the correct same way, and order the same thing at our favorite Indian restaurant (Shahi Paneer and Punjabi Naan= heaven!). And yeah, I like to eat the same kind of apples and grocery shop at Hannaford. Kurt, however, was pretty convinced that Shaw’s was the better option on this particular day, as it would save us about 15 minutes of travel time, and he was itchy to get home. I quickly lined up my rebuttal.

“Shaw’s is way more expensive, and I know where everything is at Hannaford. That’ll save time.”

“Molly,” he said, patiently, “Hannaford is under construction. You don’t know where anything is there anymore. You’ve been complaining about it for weeks.”

“Good point,” I conceded, and we went to Shaw’s.

In the produce section, I looked around, trying to get my bearings. The Granny Smiths were straight ahead. Immediately, I checked the price. $1.99/pound.

Yikes! I’m pretty sure they’re at least 20 cents a pound cheaper at Hannaford, I thought. (I’m nothing if not pennywise and pound foolish. And maybe a wee bit stubborn.) I looked around at my other options. Golden Delicious. Honey Crisp. Cortland. Hmmmm… Jazz apples were on sale for $1.79/pound. They looked ok. I carefully selected a few and put them in the cart.

The next day after school, I took out my Jazz apple. I admit, I had been a little excited about it, wondering how this new apple would taste compared to the tried and true Granny Smith. It was a bit odd to have a red apple in my hand. Slowly, I took my first bite. A chunk of apple broke off in my mouth. It was firm, sweet, crunchy and delicious! It was like a different fruit! My eyes opened to what I’d been missing with my Granny Smith-only apple regime. Sure, I hadn’t eaten any disgusting mealy apples lately, but I’d also forgotten all about the delicious taste nuances of apple varieties.

It struck me suddenly that it’s all too easy to fall into patterns and turn them into ruts. Many patterns are helpful, efficient and based on rational decisions. For example, I still believe that Hannaford is less expensive, and I save money by shopping there. But–and this is a big but–it’s also all too easy to forget all about the other options. To consistently choose only one option because it’s known and feels safer, more reliable. To maybe slowly come to believe on some level that your choice is the best choice, and the others are somehow inferior.

Trying a Jazz apple was like a mini-awakening–a reminder that other flavors and textures are out there. Sure I can stick with Granny Smiths and be assured of a pretty safe and tasty apple experience, but what am I missing? So what if there are a few duds. There are sure to be some dazzling taste experiences out there, too.

So, this weekend I went back to Hannaford to shop. But I picked up a few more Jazz apples–along with my tried-and-true Granny Smiths. Who knows, maybe next week I’ll go all radical and try a Honey Crisp!

“It’s Tuesday tomorrow. Just write something down,” I tell myself. I had already opened up a blank page in my blog and was waiting for inspiration to strike.

But it wasn’t.

And just as I start to write down my thought, trying the trick of getting something, anything, on the page, I notice a message over to the side:

Um, yeah, I know that. That’s kind of the problem actually. And what’s with the two exclamation points, one of them highlighted in red!? That seems a bit over the top. I haven’t been sitting here for that long.

I sit back and stare at the screen. What is going on here? I wonder if I wait around for a bit longer, if another message will appear. Maybe a more helpful one. Maybe my computer will suggest a writing idea, like: “Try writing about visiting the beach today and how you watched the seals cavorting off shore.” (I think cavorting is the type of word that would appeal to this computer. It already strikes me as a pompous, somewhat judgmental and overexcitable sort–I mean, really. Two exclamation points!?!) Or maybe it would suggest “Write about the new restaurant you tried today and how you and your husband shamelessly eavesdropped on the adjacent table.” (There’s that judgy side again.)

I wait. Neither inspiration nor a random computer message strikes.

The minutes continue to pass and nothing happens. Apparently, that initial message is the sum total of my feedback. I feel a bit disgruntled. I mean, if my computer is going to start communicating with me, is going to send a message, at least it should make it worthwhile! Unfortunately, this computer apparently has nothing else to say. It only wants to point out the problem, not offer a solution. There’s always a critic, right?

Well, I know one way to take care of that. I lean forward and click on the “x” in the corner of the message. It disappears. Hmmm, that feels better.

I settle in to write.

Parking was tight and the line ran out the door. I’ve been voting here for 11 years and had never seen a line like this. As I waited, I looked around me and listened in on conversations. I looked around at my fellow voters. “Who are you voting for?” I wondered. I found myself hoping, wishing. I looked at clothing, facial expressions, anything, trying to glean the intent of each voter. Who were all these people? What vision did they hold for our country?

The line moved forward slowly. Occasionally, I chatted with the people around me. We talked about the line, the weather, the temperature in the room. For a few minutes, we discussed the new rank choice voting system and how that worked. We slid in and out of inconsequential conversations.

“I wonder if those are for people who forgot their reading glasses,” the woman in front of me commented, gesturing to the “check in” table. On the corner by the ballots were a couple of pairs of glasses.

“I hope so,” she continued, “because I forgot mine.”

As we watched, a recent voter submitted their ballot, then walked over and set a pair of glasses back on the table before exiting.

“Oh, they are,” she said, clearly relieved.

Something about those glasses spoke to me. I wondered if having reading glasses available was routine at polling places, but suspected it was a small town gesture. They were a touch of humanity that cut through the tension of this day, of this moment. I’d joked several times recently that my ballot would sizzle when I submitted it, as I am desperately concerned about the current state of our political system. But those glasses…

Two pairs of glasses just sitting on a counter. Ready and willing to help anyone. No matter who they were voting for. No matter what vision they had for the country. Addressing a common frailty.  They cut through all of the vitriol and turmoil to connect us. Behind them was a person who saw a need and addressed it, calmly and quietly. Without fanfare.

I’m not sure what will happen with this election, but I do know that I’ll think about those glasses again. I’ll remember them–two pairs of glasses sitting there, on the edge of the table, available to anyone who might need them.

I’m thankful for those glasses.