the gift of presence
Last week I drove through lashing winds and wild rains to a small town in Connecticut, to give a talk to a group of library friends. Afterward, a woman from the audience approached me as I stepped between the podium and the book table. It was clear she had a question, one she preferred not to share with the whole crowd.
We chatted for just a few minutes, barely long enough for her to articulate her thoughts about being lost on the path of midlife, or for me to respond in any way that might be helpful. It was a conversation that really called for a walk, a cup of tea, time — not the rushed reassurance I tried to offer her while people were lining up to buy books.
But I’ve been thinking about her over the last few days, as I’ve done the mundane tasks of keeping my own life on track: watering the house plants, vacuuming, walking the dog, doing the laundry, paying bills and answering emails, raking leaves, planning dinner and shopping for groceries. Nothing terribly exciting or important, just the ordinary work of being me.
The woman’s children are grown and she’s recently retired from a full-time career that satisfied her for years. She’s neither young nor old, her health is good, her life is good. Her days, she told me, are busy still, taken up with family, volunteer work, seeing friends, and caring for others. She is making a difference in her world, grateful her new freedom means she’s able to be there for those who need her.
And yet, she said, there’s something missing. She’s not quite certain that what she’s doing is “enough.” There’s a nagging guilt, a sense of inadequacy, a suspicion that she’s not being productive enough or successful enough or impressive enough.
“I know that feeling,” I said to her. “I have it, too.”
Looking back over the last few months, I have precious little to show for my time. I’ve barely written a blog post, let alone an essay someone might actually be willing to pay for. I keep moving the words “book proposal” to the next page of my calendar, without ever actually sitting down and getting started. Apart from teaching my weekly yoga class, I’m essentially “unemployed.”
I’ve let the garden go this fall (there are no chrysanthemums in pots on our doorstep, no cornstalks propped at the threshold). I’ve not done a very good job of staying in touch with my friends, or made it to my book group, or, truth be told, found time to read the book. My summer clothes are still in the closet, augmented by the few sweaters and pairs of jeans that live there year round. I haven’t thrown a dinner party or even taken my mom out to lunch. I haven’t upgraded the operating system on my computer, or cleaned the pantry, or sorted through the old magazines piled up on the coffee table. I not only forgot a good friend’s birthday, but when I finally did call her, I had a momentary brain warp and had her age wrong by three years.
In addition, my sense of myself as a strong, hearty, physical person has come up against a new reality. Months of shifting but chronic pain have led me down one road after another, in search of an “answer.” I’ve spent a lot of money at the chiropractor’s, trying to keep my spine in alignment and my hips open and my legs moving, and more money at the office of the nurse practitioner who’s treating me for Lyme disease. The kitchen countertop is littered with homeopathic remedies and supplements, my closet floor is a jumble of shoeboxes (still trying to decide which pair of new orthotic shoes will give me the best hope of walking this winter without limping, and which ones should go back to Zappos), and I’m typing these words while perched upon my new Tush-Cush Orthopedic Seat Cushion, which is supposed to prevent me from further compressing my vertebrae.
Not exactly a picture of a high-achiever! As I confessed to my husband the other night, I sometimes worry I’ve become more of a liability in our household than a contributor. I’m definitely writing more checks than I’m depositing at the bank. (Thank goodness for royalty payments of any size!) When I look around at what my friends are doing – settling a ten-million-dollar law suit in a client’s favor, creating an early childhood program in South Africa, counseling families, writing books, hosting tours of their gardens, creating prize-winning websites – I’m proud of them and their accomplishments. At the same time, I have to admit to feeling considerably “less than.”
And yet from a distance, to the woman in the audience, I appeared to be someone who had it together and was doing a lot. “You’ve published these books,” she said, “and you also teach, you do Reiki, you have a website, you stood up here today and gave a talk.” And then, in the next breath, “And I’m not doing anything. At least, not anything that really matters.”
Ah, and there it was again, this age-old, heart-breakingly cruel thing we women do to ourselves. We compare ourselves to someone else and come up wanting. We look at what someone else is doing and feel our own contributions mean less, are worth less, amount to less. We assume other women must have things all figured out, and that we must be the only ones stumbling along in the dark, unsure of our choices, managing invisible aches and pains, uncertain of our purpose, hesitating to take the next step.
“No, no,” I rushed to assure her. “I haven’t actually written anything for weeks. I only teach a little. I mostly practice Reiki on myself these days.” It seemed important for me to let her know, in the two minutes we had together, that we were in the same boat.
But thinking about that brief conversation over the last few days, I realize we both short-changed ourselves. The woman who berated herself for not doing anything that “matters” had just told me about her family, her friends, and her volunteer work in her town. She offers her best self in places where she’s needed, and she gives her time as a gift from the heart. Tell me that doesn’t matter!
And, although it’s true I’ve been quiet lately, writing less and doing less out in the world, I also know deep down that what I have been doing is no less meaningful for being invisible.
Not having a 9 to 5 job means it’s been possible for me to be there for my friend who is sick. “Can you believe we’re doing this?” she said the other day, as I pushed her wheelchair through the hospital halls, on our way to her weekly blood test. I had just been thinking of the afternoon runs we used to take, the mountain we used to climb, the last hike we made on snowshoes. She’s right – no one could have foreseen this latest installment in our twenty-year friendship. But at least we both chose in that moment to laugh, glad — as always — to be together and making the best of things as they are. And it didn’t escape me that my own presence on this journey is a privilege. I can be at my friend’s side – driving her to appointments, dropping in mid-day with some lunch, cooking something healthy for dinner — because I’m not needed more someplace else.
I’ve been available, too, for a friend in crisis, just as I know she would be for me if the tables were turned. One step at a time, she’s negotiating the end of an old life and navigating the scary, unknown territory of a new one — the kind of venture no one should have to undertake without a companionable fellow traveler with whom to share the inevitable twists and turns of the road. Being present here means talking things over, going to court, reading the small print, hashing out a plan. I travel this rocky terrain with my friend because I can. Again, a privilege.
In both of these situations, I’m reminded every day that being present for someone else isn’t always about helping to manage the day’s challenges. Sometimes being present is simply about, well, presence. We live in a busy world, surrounded by people bent on getting things done. Our culture is fueled by our notions of doing — more, faster, better. But action isn’t always the answer. And a lot of what I’m doing these days involves a willingness to shift gears, to move gracefully and gratefully into a state of not doing. Sometimes, the best I have to offer is a willingness simply to be – with whatever the moment brings.
And so, I join my sick friend in the slow current of her “new normal.” We take a little walk and stop to watch the leaves fall, or we sit on the grass and pick shriveled beans off the vine, or we lie on our backs on an unseasonably warm October afternoon, gazing up at the sky, our thoughts drifting with the clouds. Back at home, I find myself drawn to solitude and silence, needing this time to refill the well and to reconnect with my own quiet center. Sitting down to dinner at the end of the day with my husband and our grown son, both home from work and with news to share, I look across the table and am overcome, as always, by the simple truth of life’s abundance.
I may or may not get the book proposal written. I definitely need some new shoes. I’ll take my Cat’s Claw and my magnesium and my various other pills and potions and do my daily stretches and hope for the best. I’ll fill the birdfeeder and make another meal and answer another letter from a reader. I’ll drive my friend to the doctor and bring her beautiful salads and do Reiki when her head hurts.
Meanwhile, to my own inner critic (never quiet for long) and to the woman at lunch last week, I want to say this: it’s never what we do that matters, but rather, how we do it. The secret ingredient isn’t ambition, but love. We make a gift of our lives, of ourselves, in simple ways – by being kind, by being compassionate, by paying attention, by being useful in whatever way we can, wherever we happen to be, in whatever time we have.
Postscript: Two years ago exactly, we were filming the book trailer for Magical Journey. I watched it this morning — to relive that autumn day and to have a bittersweet glimpse of our late, beloved dog Gracie running through the leaves. But then I realized that what I really needed today was to hear my soul’s own message. How easily we forget what we know to be true! Maybe I’m not alone in this? Click here.
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