Tuesday, January 25, 2011
It is tempting to allow life to charge forward as if our moments are like boxcars clamped together into one great, endless train. We slip into routines that distance us from the felt experience of life, as if we are not really inside our own train but are watching as its tiny image chug-chugs on some distant horizon. The rote performance of our customary tasks is a gentle rhythm that lulls us from feeling the immediacy of new moments. Distracted from an awareness of the joys of the here and now, our inattentiveness has the effect of pulling us from feelings of attachment to our personal destinies, as if we have delegated to some invisible conductor the privilege of steering our course. Once in a while, however, seemingly unrelated events happen synchronously, and we are shaken from our complacency. Today, for example, is a day that my dear friend, Dawn Neely-Randall, marks with emotions wide and inexpressible. Today is the first anniversary of the death of her husband, the love of her life, John Randall. (See: Eternal Flame)
For those of us who love Dawn, The Year of Firsts has been a shared journey. Sometimes, we gave her space. Sometimes, we appeared at her door. In essence, we hitched as many boxcars of our lives to her train as we could without becoming additional weight that she had to pull. But now here it was: the First Anniversary. I woke up feeling as if I could let out the breath that I’d been holding since John passed.
But, then again, maybe not.
Early this morning, my telephone rang. It was Ronald Lane, whom my family and I had met shortly after his escape from Hurricane Katrina. He had thrown some possessions in his car and feld to Lorain, Ohio, where his mother, Grace, lived. He had spent the past many decades working as an artisan in the French Quarter. The hurricane destroyed his life-sustaining career.
My family and I helped Ronald as much as we could. He delighted in the laptop we were able to give him. My sons spent hours with him, teaching him how to email and peruse the Internet, which proved a good instructor for an eager student. He spent many evenings researching far-away places, like Egypt, that have always held his fascination. “I’ve been going on all kinds of trips,” he told me, chuckling. “I’ve been traveling all over the world with my computer!” Shyly, he mentioned that his Internet studies were improving his reading skills. He was more able to read signs now, he said.
My sons also set him up with a free Web site. They photographed his jewelry and inventions and placed them on the site. Ronald was hopeful that an Internet presence would be able to replace, somewhat, his physical presence at the French Market. But the business aspect of on-line marketing proved too tough for him to manage. He stayed in Ohio for a couple of years and then returned to New Orleans, hopeful that he could reestablish his jewelry making career.
Since then, Ronald and I have stayed in touch. Every time we spoke, Ronald expressed faith in the journey, faith that God had everything under control. His tag line was, “I love you, Maura, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it!”
In November, Ronald received news that his mother was in the final stages of lung cancer. He called me. If a voice could buckle, his was on its knees. Yet by the time we hung up, he was calm. He just needed to know he had someone who could be there for him just as he would be there for his mother.
He drove to Ohio and learned how to care for his mother. He told her, ‘Mom, you can’t use your legs to get around anymore and so I will be your legs. Your arms don’t have the strength they used to have and so let me be your arms. I am an extension of your legs and arms. Whatever you want, whatever you need, you just tell me.’ He cooked for Grace, he bathed her, and he kept her house as she wished it to be kept.
Two weeks ago, Grace was hospitalized. Ronald beat back Fear. He would not allow It to own him. He knew that he needed to be strong for Grace. This morning, then, when I heard his voice on the other end of the phone, hope rose in me because he sounded so different. He sounded elated. There must be good news, I thought.
“I wanted to call and tell you that my mother transitioned,” he said. “And she’s just fine, and I’m just fine."
And so there it is: A brilliant explosion of synchronicity. For Dawn, today is the end of The First Year. For Ronald, the same date is the beginning of The First Year. For me, the day escorts me out of Dawn’s First Year and into Ronald’s, blessing me with another chance to be a friend.
Synchronicity is a stick that prods us from distracted complacency.
It is tempting to allow life to charge forward as if our moments are like boxcars clamped together into one great, endless train. We slip into routines that distance us from the felt experience of life, as if we are not really inside our own train but are watching as its tiny image chug-chugs on some distant horizon. The rote performance of our customary tasks is a gentle rhythm that lulls us from feeling the immediacy of new moments. Distracted from an awareness of the joys of the here and now, our inattentiveness has the effect of pulling us from feelings of attachment to our personal destinies, as if we have delegated to some invisible conductor the privilege of steering our course. Once in a while, however, seemingly unrelated events happen synchronously, and we are shaken from our complacency. Today, for example, is a day that my dear friend, Dawn Neely-Randall, marks with emotions wide and inexpressible. Today is the first anniversary of the death of her husband, the love of her life, John Randall. (See: Eternal Flame)
For those of us who love Dawn, The Year of Firsts has been a shared journey. Sometimes, we gave her space. Sometimes, we appeared at her door. In essence, we hitched as many boxcars of our lives to her train as we could without becoming additional weight that she had to pull. But now here it was: the First Anniversary. I woke up feeling as if I could let out the breath that I’d been holding since John passed.
But, then again, maybe not.
Early this morning, my telephone rang. It was Ronald Lane, whom my family and I had met shortly after his escape from Hurricane Katrina. He had thrown some possessions in his car and feld to Lorain, Ohio, where his mother, Grace, lived. He had spent the past many decades working as an artisan in the French Quarter. The hurricane destroyed his life-sustaining career.
My family and I helped Ronald as much as we could. He delighted in the laptop we were able to give him. My sons spent hours with him, teaching him how to email and peruse the Internet, which proved a good instructor for an eager student. He spent many evenings researching far-away places, like Egypt, that have always held his fascination. “I’ve been going on all kinds of trips,” he told me, chuckling. “I’ve been traveling all over the world with my computer!” Shyly, he mentioned that his Internet studies were improving his reading skills. He was more able to read signs now, he said.
My sons also set him up with a free Web site. They photographed his jewelry and inventions and placed them on the site. Ronald was hopeful that an Internet presence would be able to replace, somewhat, his physical presence at the French Market. But the business aspect of on-line marketing proved too tough for him to manage. He stayed in Ohio for a couple of years and then returned to New Orleans, hopeful that he could reestablish his jewelry making career.
Since then, Ronald and I have stayed in touch. Every time we spoke, Ronald expressed faith in the journey, faith that God had everything under control. His tag line was, “I love you, Maura, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it!”
In November, Ronald received news that his mother was in the final stages of lung cancer. He called me. If a voice could buckle, his was on its knees. Yet by the time we hung up, he was calm. He just needed to know he had someone who could be there for him just as he would be there for his mother.
He drove to Ohio and learned how to care for his mother. He told her, ‘Mom, you can’t use your legs to get around anymore and so I will be your legs. Your arms don’t have the strength they used to have and so let me be your arms. I am an extension of your legs and arms. Whatever you want, whatever you need, you just tell me.’ He cooked for Grace, he bathed her, and he kept her house as she wished it to be kept.
Two weeks ago, Grace was hospitalized. Ronald beat back Fear. He would not allow It to own him. He knew that he needed to be strong for Grace. This morning, then, when I heard his voice on the other end of the phone, hope rose in me because he sounded so different. He sounded elated. There must be good news, I thought.
“I wanted to call and tell you that my mother transitioned,” he said. “And she’s just fine, and I’m just fine."
And so there it is: A brilliant explosion of synchronicity. For Dawn, today is the end of The First Year. For Ronald, the same date is the beginning of The First Year. For me, the day escorts me out of Dawn’s First Year and into Ronald’s, blessing me with another chance to be a friend.
Synchronicity is a stick that prods us from distracted complacency.
