The Only Gesture that Makes Sense

 

On the days when no one

Seems to want what we have to offer,

When no one seems to value

The multiplicity of our gifts gathered

Over many, many years

We go to the forest where live

Chickadees so bold and so brave

That they will land on our open hands

And select sunflower seeds to their liking.

 

There is a bench that we sit on,

Yes, it has come to this, I think,

We who are a certain age are

sitting on a bench feeding birds.

We pour sunflower seeds into our

Wide open hands, and wait.

One by one the chickadees alight

And take a seed to eat or to cache.

Some are impossibly light,

Others squeeze their tiny claws

Into the soft base of my thumb.

There are those that are particular

About which seed to take and still

Others that take two, three maybe four at once.

I begin to recognize them by their weight

And stature and gentleness and forcefulness.

I am enchanted and enthralled by their

Presence, my presencing their presence

 

And I wonder to myself,

Who is feeding who?

 

As an older, as an elder with wisdom to share

Gifts to give, spaces to open and hold

And encouragement to offer

All with the background sound of a clock ticking

This simple act of offering seeds becomes

A ceremony, a symbol, more than a metaphor

Of hands held open offering what we have

To share with a world that speeds by

Knowing that time is running out.

 

And yet, I hold my hands open

And offer nevertheless.

It is the only gesture that makes sense anymore.

The Strength of Fragility

 

On Tuesday, I held my sleeping grandson in my arms for two hours.  He fell asleep in my arms and at ten months of age, he wakes easily if he is put down.  I was in a comfy chair with nothing to do but hold him as he slept.  What an amazing thing, I thought, to be holding another grandson, to be holding another baby.  I didn’t know that that would happen.  He is a precious gift.

Every now and then he startled, opened his eyes, closed them again and fell back to sleep.  I dozed off for a few moments myself, there in the quiet house that he shares with his mom and dad who were both at work.  I could see how those startles would wake him up if he was in a crib but every time he startled, I held him tight and he drifted off again.

As a baby, I was left alone in a crib to cry myself to sleep, according to the advice of Dr. Spock whom my mother as a first time mom, listened to.  My father would play the piano to drown out my cries.  Although I don’t have memories from this time in my life, I do know that my body remembers what it feels like to be alone and upset and have no one come.  Self-soothing means learning how to take care of yourself in the absence of caregivers. 

As a mom myself, I could never leave my kids to cry themselves to sleep.  It was too distressing for me and it didn’t make sense.  Dr. Gabor Mate now  writes eloquently on this very topic saying that disturbing the mother-child bond is stressful for both.  He is not an advocate for leaving babies to cry themselves to sleep either.

And so, as a second time grandmother, I luxuriate in holding my grandson while he sleeps.  I know he will learn to sleep well on his own in time just as my children did.  I want to be present for this time in his life and provide comfort as he gets used to his mom going back to school and not being there all the time.  I want to be a loving substitute while he adjusts.

Every now and then, I stopped breathing myself to watch his tiny chest go up and down just as I did with my own children.  Yes, he is still breathing.  I used to do that with my own babies.  What is it about babies that brings us face to face with the fragility of life I pondered.

The day before, on Monday, I had visited my 95 year-old father in the nursing home where he lives.  I play classical music for him from my iPod into the microphone of the amplification headset that I carefully place over his ears.  He is very still and only speaks occasionally.  Every now and then, I watch his large chest going up and down as he breaths.  Yes, he is still breathing.  I am aware that every breath could be the last one.  I am aware of the fragility of life.

I recently caught COVID after two and a half years of avoiding that.  I didn’t get very sick.  In fact, it was more like a mild cold.  But, I didn’t know what to expect.  I am in the over 65 demographic and although I am generally healthy, I didn’t know how this variant would play out.  My partner caught it first, so I had days of waiting to get sick.  I shopped, baked muffins, got out my medicinal plants and made tea for my partner.  And I slept, a lot.  I felt tired and listened to my body.  I allowed myself to sleep like a baby.  When I was just resting, I listened to talking books from the same iPod that I use for my dad.  My partner slept a lot because he had a fever and was much sicker than anything that I eventually experienced.  I was kind of alone, but the voices of the narrators kept me company.  I can’t say that it was a near death experience.  Instead, it felt like a “fear death” experience.  I came in touch with the fragility of my own life. 

And then, I was well again.  After a few weeks, I could visit my dad again and take care of my grandson.  On this side of the COVID portal life feels more precious.  Colours seem brighter and now that my sense of smell is returning, smells are more exciting.  Understanding the fragility of life could lead to more fear and anxiety and it can also lead to more joy, appreciation and gratitude.

And so, I spent two hours holding my precious grandson as he slept, just as I did with my children and just as I wished I had been held.  Perhaps in so doing, I am in fact holding myself, healing myself.  Perhaps, I am changing the story of self-soothing, of taking care of oneself alone to one of connection and holding one another.