The problem with being a rock, and, by that I mean, offering
strength to someone you love, in the absence of their own, is that you are a
rock, and, given that outward appearance can seem eternally unchanged, you
simply blend in unnoticed, that is, until gratitude rears its ugly head. There
is no greater enemy of friendship, or relationship, or love, than gratitude. It
simply creates an unpayable debt, and a debt, to the diminished or weak hangs on
them like a stone collar.
She is afraid of me now, not that I can blame her given who
and what I am, because her gratitude is held in conjunction with all that is
wrong in her life; in all the sadness and suffering that I have stood her
through; that sadness and suffering that she now wishes to expunge like hair clogging
a drain. I can no longer be seen as hope, as I represent nothing but her
despair, and she begrudges me that, though it is not of my creation. “I don’t
go backwards,” she is fond of saying, and for a woman who has thrived living in
the miracle of the moment, she is now sliding backwards into a future she is
imagining; a future contrary to her past, a future painted with previously
unwanted colors. She can no longer stand next to me, in this forlorn world of
her past, and runs forwardly backward, believing she is well again, her
footsteps carrying her towards death’s door. She does not see this. She has
donned, once again, the blinders of hiding, recreating who she always been
(even when denying it) into a persona just a bit different, just a bit more
distant from her core; a planet orbiting itself. The truly terrifying aspect of
this is that she cannot see it; she, who is so self-aware, cannot perceive the
not-so-subtle changes. And I am left to remain what I am, allowing her to
stumble, but not to fall; letting her almost break, while bearing the weight of
my own terror, not silently, but rather, withdrawn into what kindness I can
muster, which oftentimes, unfortunately, carries the flavor of frustration.
As for me, I do not believe that I can adequately describe
the weight I bear. It most certainly carries some of my specious certainty that
I know, or at least have learned, what she needs, and how best to supply it; I
do, however, allow that she has more than a little grasp of it herself. She is,
however, strong-willed enough to press ahead with full, formidable
force…denying, it seems to me, that her illness is equally as powerful…to the
level of her former energy; this, I fear, is hurting her, both with her
perceived happiness, and her new found lack of awareness. She looks,
oftentimes, haggard to the nth, and fortifies it with uncharacteristic temper,
sometimes to the point of outright mean.
All this, of course, has been augmented by her allowing me
to taste of what was and could be. That I embraced it with my whole, open heart
was perhaps, unknowingly selfish, yet it was also given purely. It was, for me,
a bitter pill to swallow; to have tenderness withdrawn. Perhaps, that is not
accurate, for she does not live without tenderness pouring outward from within,
yet it often seems now that her tenderness is somehow mildly forced…more of a
longing than a desire. Still, I would eagerly offer her kisses, or foot rubs,
it matters not which, with the full brilliance of my love, yet I cannot find a
genuine smile any longer.
Yet I grow, albeit begrudgingly. I can allow consciously for
the possibilities beyond my purview, but my intuitive sense is the stronger. I
have not often been wrong, whether in foresight or hindsight. Yes, I know that
sounds a lot egocentric, but I have learned that my intuition, my gut, and yes,
my empathy have rarely betrayed me. I do not carry my gifts with the same
kindness that she does, but I trust them completely, and I cannot relinquish
what I see. Still, I know that I will be there, whatever is to come, whether it
actualizes as happiness, or collapse, for she still talks of the wonders we
could do, while leaving me to do them alone.
I have to allow her own process of healing, and, to an
extent I am, but my despair often brings me to the point of tearful withdrawal,
an endless repetition of retreat and approach, which as methods go is an abject
failure. I have always found my way, and I believe I will again, yet I find
myself begging any who or what to renew my strength, so that I can choose to
smile again. Her despair is equally painful, and I never forget that; sometimes
however, I cannot paint that for her.
She has always offered her gift without condition or clause,
and has always believed that the gift will be received as it is given. This
cannot be true, as, more often than not, it is received as the deer sees the
headlight, and once seen, there is no escape. I don’t mean to imply that none
have received it, and broken free, but even for those capable, there is no
possibility of resisting the light of the beam. It freezes you warmly into
better; opens you to standing still in the moment of glow, without the benefit,
to all but a few, of seeing the pace or power of the vehicle. She has no sense
of the consequence, if there is one. She only sees the better, and that is good
enough for her. For most, it cannot be sustained in her absence, yet she cannot
see that the result is never the full extent of her gift; she is happy with
knowing that, at the very least, they are the better for it, though never the
best. She offers possibilities. Realizing them is entirely up to the recipient;
holding on to them is elusive for the majority. It is like talking to God for
three minutes, never to remember the conversation, but perhaps leaving with
afterglow. Yet when they fail, or alter the truth of it, it cuts her to the
quick; hurts her so deep and long. When they deny the truth of it, she fires
back with undeniable truth, whether they acquiesce or not. The truth of what
can be is sacred to her. There is no compromise. Truth, like love, just is.
Perhaps it is these walls, plastered with memory, painted
with soiled sadness; she cannot be happy here; she cannot be happy in what she
has always done here. Yes, there are moments, but they exhaust and deplete her.
Perhaps it is nothing more than the memories carried in these breezes. She
cannot escape the cooling melancholy, the goosepimply sensations of involuntary
dread. But these breezes have stolen from her, carried away what she gives
elsewhere, carried away to give it elsewhere. She embodies joy everywhere but
here. The world becomes lighter, everywhere but here. Being her is negated
within these walls. She needs certainty. These walls imprison her in fractal,
particulate vagaries. They need fresh paint, the colors of new moments. Perhaps
when all is settled she will not have lost the permanence of these walls, and
they will bring her new vision. She talks of it, but only in conscious,
pragmatic tones. These walls have excised her will; she cannot do here, or will
herself to do, and when she tries, it only lasts until she depletes, and she is
only left the energy to voice all that is wrong and untrue. There is a sense of
failure in her when she is here. She runs away, I think, to prove to herself
that it is not her fault; that she can offer better choices, and that they will
hold if she offers them to fresh hearts and minds. She is mildly wrong about
one thing. She is not an experiential learner; she is the teacher, and benefits
from instantaneous result. There is nothing instant in this home. She needs the
here and now to restore; what approaches, certain or uncertain, offers her no
respite and no renewal. I am the rock, but I have also become these walls. I am
sad.
*****
The old woman has died; died yesterday morning, at the
proper time, with the knowledge of comforting, worn out uselessness. I only met
her once, and our entire dialogue, beyond greeting, consisted our individual
perceptions. “I am confused,” she said. “Me too,” I replied. She slipped in and
out of clarity as easily as she slipped in and out of sleep. She was 97 years
old, and dementia was a natural, constant companion. She was, by all accounts,
a remarkable woman; artist, author, pioneer. Yet it was her, and by that I mean
her, the younger, not her the deceased, that gave her a final, peaceful clarity.
I did not witness their interactions, yet what I know is undoubtedly true. The
dying woman saw before her a younger woman who bore the natural gift of joy
that her loved ones needed. She saw the younger woman as nobly wise as herself;
as strong as she was. She could leave her family in equally good hands. And she
knew all this clearly, despite her dementia, in the grand moments of lucidity
that she was gifted. I don’t know if she, the younger, taught her to dance in
open joy, but she most certainly gave her the reality of dying with a smile,
perhaps unseen, but a smile, from knowing that all would be well after her
final breath. She died happily knowing.
*****
Her body has betrayed her; stolen from her the peace of
knowing that success and happiness would come. She is drained, depleted, and
she is fighting with an unbreakable will. She needs the quiet to find that
will, and she has found it. Unfortunately, it exists in an alternate universe,
unconfined by these walls. Her drives have become more primal, and in the
reptilian realm of fight-or-flight, flight has won the battle. In order to
restore, she needs to give every aspect of herself…heart, body, mind…to those
who are lost, or sad, or hopelessly confused. And I’m certain that the old
woman’s son, his sons and daughters, and all the strays are the beneficiaries
of her untethered will. Their worlds are brighter, more joyous, more open to
wonder, than they have ever been. This is a very good thing, but it has a
precious cost. She gives to restore. She helps and heals and brightens. I
cannot fully describe her offerings, because they are boundless. Her flight has
led her to this offering to novices. Her other life no longer exists, but in
vague recollection. Admittedly, she does not have the strength to do both, or
to be here, or to be there. She gives, but never takes. OK, she does receive,
but that is different than taking. Taking is the other half of giving, and
neither can exist fully without the other. It took me most of my life to learn
this. Lennon was right. ‘The love you make is equal to the love you take’…or
the other way around…same result. She cannot restore, fulfill, until she learns
this. So she marches forward, eschewing the sleep she desperately needs,
denying herself the care she needs. The joy of giving supplies her the illusion
that she is better. She is draining faster than before, and I am powerless to
do anything but let her march.
Anyway, I have my own internal battles to wage.
I will find the truthful answers. I will love her always, as purely as I always
have. And most of the time that is good enough to work. It will again.
