"The Trouble is, You Think You Have Time."

On the morning of April 18th as I left the house to go to work I could feel the warmth of the sun soaking my bones.  While David worked in the yard, he looked over his shoulder, said a casual, "see you later," and returned to the lawn.  I placed my hands on his face, looked into his eyes, said, "I love you," and gently kissed him before heading to Denver.  With the windows down and the wind moving through my hair, I felt the care-free weightlessness that only comes with crisp mornings and blossoming trees. That afternoon sitting with a student in my office, David's name appeared as an incoming call on my phone.  From somewhere deep within a knowing intuition compelled me to text him, when I would have otherwise waited until after my meeting.  "I'm with a student, are you OK?" David immediately called me again, from the back of an ambulance.  He totaled his car.  Before I could process what happened, I was in the emergency room with him, glass embedded in his face, burns on his forehead, side, and chest, and a blood-soaked shirt.  My stomach became a hollow trunk, trying to steady my otherwise weak body. It wasn't until I felt his hand in mine that I trusted his breath.  When we left the hospital I couldn't bare to leave David's side because I was afraid he would suddenly disappear. 

I made a commitment long ago not to take time for granted.  I decided I would both celebrate and honor the people I love, just in case I don't get the chance to see them again; so that morning I made sure to look David in the eyes and kiss him before leaving.  But standing with my toes curled on the edge between life and death with its bright red fragility saturating the moment, I realized no matter how hard I try I can't prepare for the possibility of losing someone.  Fortunately we left the hospital simply feeling fractured and therefore blessed with the gift of time to love more deeply, to be more forgiving, and with an acute awareness of what really matters.  But sometimes these moments slip through our fingers before we realize we ever let go.

In January after receiving a text about the possibility of seeing a friend I hadn't seen in a long time, that same intuition lead me to a google search where I found a news story about her battle with pancreatic cancer.  I was stunned that someone I cared about, someone so vibrant, could be fighting for her life and I didn't know.  How is it possible that much time had passed between us.  I began texting her and sending her cards, but none of it filled the infinite hole circling inside me, left by lost time.  On her good days she was optimistic and full of life.  On her bad days she was honest and her honesty pierced my skin. After being out of touch for so long I didn't know if I had the right to ask for her time when she had so little left to give, instead I loved her from a distance.  When she stopped texting I knew her silence was a precursor, and when the silence was deafening, I knew she was gone.  I think about the last time I saw her smile.  If I had known it was going to be the last time, I would have never looked away because just maybe we'd be frozen in that moment and she'd still be here with us.

photo credit: Celena Nuanes

The weight of the sorrow I feel heavily fills my hollow trunk as I am trying to reconcile how I lost track of time while I was busy being in the moment.  I am doing my best to let the sadness pass because I can't stand to disgrace her by spending precious time consumed with regret. She fought so hard to live and love, how dare I do anything else?  Jen's last words to me were, "Thank u my friend."  If she could find the strength to express gratitude while on borrowed time, I owe it to her to do the same.  I plan to dedicate my life to finding joy, not just when it's easy, standing beneath red canyon walls taking in the smells of desert sage, or on top of the jagged ridges of towering giants, but also when I'm not feeling well or when I'm faced with small inconveniences that alter my day.  I will love loudly and live fully because I have learned that being broken wide open from the pain of losing someone is far greater than the risk of being vulnerable.  Jen shined so brightly and I intend to do my part so make sure the world still sees her light.

photo credit: Celena Nuanes

Asking for Help

During a recent trip to Vegas I was approached by an obviously pregnant woman. As she spoke I quickly concluded she was asking for money and before she finished her question I was answering her. I rarely carry cash, so it was easy to say, “No.”  She went on to explain she wanted help getting something to eat because she was pregnant.  I walked away apologizing and on the way back to the hotel I remembered I uncharacteristically had $20 in my wallet.  Immediately I felt awful; I felt like I was another version of myself.  I jumped so quickly to a conclusion, I never heard her question.  I didn’t take time to truly see her or to listen to her.  Had I done that, I would have remembered I had money in my pocket and I would have taken the time to buy her dinner.  But even if I didn’t have cash on me, I could have paid for food with my debit card. 

By the time I processed these thoughts I was back at my hotel and the moment was lost.  As I walked through the hotel lobby I was surrounded by reminders that I was in the city of excess, and my regret grew deeper. I took an inventory of the abundance in my life, a loving partner, a comfortable home, more food than I can eat, a regular salary, a supportive family, a warm, safe bed in a hotel that by my standards was luxurious.   A couple months later I still have to be reminded to be gentle with myself.  It’s hard to be forgiving when, at least for one night, I could have made sure that woman in Vegas had dinner.  It takes a lot of courage to ask for help.

I believe the universe has a way of holding up mirrors so I can see my reflection and when I look long enough to notice, I don’t always recognize myself.  I try to be mindful of how I move through the day, being present for each moment.  I don’t want to miss opportunities to connect with another person.  When I drift from these intentions, I am often offered gentle reminders so I can get back on track.  I just have to pay attention.

The next evening I was walking around Vegas when I noticed 3 teenage girls holding cardboard signs next to one another, telling a story that read like a nightmare.  Their cousins, (two brothers) were killed within a year of each other.  One of them fighting in the war and the other was shot and killed in Chicago while attending a funeral.  When I lived in Chicago I worked in the largest housing projects with families whose lives were impacted daily by violence.  As a result of this experience and many others, I’ve learned the violence that affects so many young men who are black and Latino affects me too.  When I met the mother of these two young men, I found out what she most wanted was to be heard.  She shared with me that her son was shot within a couple of weeks of when the young girl, who attended the President’s inauguration, was also killed. I got the sense she couldn’t help but feel her son’s life was overlooked, even devalued by it's insignificance in the large scale of violence in Chicago.  We exchanged emails because we were no longer strangers.  You experience a kind of immediate intimacy when discussing the death of a child.

People often tell me they choose not to stop when someone is asking for help on the street because they never know if someone “is lying.” The truth in the details doesn’t matter to me. It’s enough that someone is asking.  I believe if someone feels so much desperation that she turns to strangers for help, then it’s my responsibility to show up with compassion, even when that’s all I have to offer.  I wonder if people who make up stories to ask for help have just been told too many times... they aren’t enough. If you are told over and over "you aren’t enough," eventually you learn to make something up and hope others will pay attention. Or maybe the truth is simply too painful to speak.  Telling a made up story cloaked with your own pain might just make asking for help bearable.