I started my day by reaching out to say happy birthday to my good friend and cousin back home. He reminded me that if he lived at least 30 more years like he planned then that would be close to 10,000 more days and 1,500 more Saturday nights.
At first, the numbers seemed large, but then they felt looming, like an inevitable end. I felt fearful—fearful that there wasn’t enough time.
As we chatted, a sister of a friend replied back to a message I had sent two weeks ago. My friend has been battling cancer—and recently she has withdrawn from the world, barely reaching out to anyone.
People think I am the brave one for writing the way I do, but it is my friend who is the brave one. She is the one who sits with a new person who has been diagnosed. She talks quietly online. She is the one whose aura transcends time and geography, and when she chats with you, you feel safe.
But now I know she doesn’t feel safe and has closed off.
Her sister is scared, and I am scared, and all we can do as friends and as a family is be there and hope she fights her way back to the light.
For the last two days, Sydney has been in a heat wave—high-30s Celsius or close to 100 for my American friends. Today, a cool front hit, and it is raining, so I walked with an umbrella and no sunglasses to hide my eyes from the world. With no hiding, I did what so many do. I kept my eyes down until I heard another set of feet coming my way. Then we did that dance of avoiding contact. If we do happen to meet eyes it will only be for the briefest of moments. It is an awkward repose that leaves me always wondering if I am so open now, then why am I not open?
As I came up the crest of a hill I could see a woman with an umbrella ahead of me; she was waiting by the edge of the sidewalk. As I approached her, I lifted my umbrella so it would not clash with hers, and as I passed, she jumped back startled.
I stopped and turned to her and immediately saw dire fear, fear that was out of context for my small interruption so I asked her “Is everything okay?”
She is elderly and stammered a few words that didn’t make sense, but I did make out that she’d lost something and was terrified. So, I leaned forward, gently placed my hand on her arm and said, “What did it look like? I will help you find it.”
Her hard eyes started to soften and a tear formed.
She placed her hand on top of mine and said,“It’s me. I am lost!”
It would take thousands of words to fully explain a conversation that lasted just a few minutes, but as I stood and listened she calmed, and we began to talk about the day, the place and the history that was around us. It was a lovely few minutes as I learned about this place from someone who had been there much longer than I.
After a while, a car pulled up (with her daughter I was to discover). She rushed to her mother’s side and apologized for her mother who wanders off and becomes disoriented and trouble for others. Her mother’s fearful eyes started to return, so I explained it was I that must have been trouble as I was lost. Her mother was offering directions and the most compelling history I have ever heard of this place.
The mother started to smile softly, and her daughter completely changed. She led her mother to the car and once inside I saw her lean over and kiss her mother on the cheek in the most loving way. As the car pulled away, her mother turned her head, smiled at me and raised her tiny hand and waved. I waved back.
I wondered for a moment did I lie? And decided I hadn’t. After all, I had started the day lost and disconnected and in a few moments, I was found.
I stopped at my favorite coffee shop on the way home. As I stood inside out of the rain a woman in front with a stroller was waiting for her order. For some reason, I stepped around and peered in, to see a little boy of two or three sitting there. Our eyes met. I smiled, and then he smiled. We started to laugh a little.
His mother turned and looking shocked, said, “He is so shy. I am sorry, is he bothering you?”
“No” I replied, “he isn’t.”
She then shuffled uncomfortably and tried to explain that he had been diagnosed with a learning disability. I explained that at one time I had been, too. I then told her that he was one of the most beautiful children I had seen in a long time. And he is! His big, beautiful, soft, dark eyes penetrate you when you look into them. We laughed together, the boy and I, and she smiled and looked directly at me, her shame replaced with joy.
She waved as they left, and the little boy gazed at me and waved, too.
I sat in the rain this morning sipping the most delicious cup of coffee I have ever had.
I wondered about those 10,000 days my cousin talked about and realized for me, life isn’t about the length of time; it’s about these tiny little moments. Today, the only time is now.
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Photo by Jake Thacker on Unsplash
