One of my least favorite things to see is people not taking themselves seriously. Not in contradiction of the "don't take yourself too seriously" philosophy because clearly we are all just people trying to do the best we can in life, but what I mean is ... certain people who are thought of in just one way. Funny, slutty, badass. And so often they settle for that because they don't see, or can't risk, choosing something else. Something better for themselves.
I see people and know they're beautiful and wish they knew it too, but I can't tell them because usually, it's not my place. And I'd like to say "I love you" but usually that's not really true, it's just that I love them for being people and having hidden things in them and the potential to create so much light in the world. And I just wish they would be able to take themselves seriously enough to discover their own light.
I feel scattered and unready. But when have I ever been ready? Seriously? It hasn't stopped me yet ...
There's this lady who I serve named Lotta. She is 98 years old and she moved in just a couple days after I started working. She has issues with memory loss but for the past few weeks, I've just noticed a general vacancy or confusion about meaningless details, like, where the bathroom is, if anything at all. She often calls me cutie and kisses me goodbye on the cheek and has amazingly good humor for someone who's been seen 70 years' worth more life than I have.
Today she had no idea who I was, where we were, or what was going on. She didn't remember how old she was or what she'd done in life or whether she had grandkids, or much at all. I had to re-explain to her how she, along with a lot of people at the place where I work, forgets things sometimes, and today she was forgetting more than normal. She started crying and clutching my hand and asking me questions and insisting how she never used to have problems like this.
I'm not going to talk down to someone who's lived so much more than I have, and tell her, "you have memory loss, it's just a part of getting older, you're okay." I held her hand and looked into her eyes and told her honestly that I didn't know how to explain things because I couldn't imagine her frustration and fear and that I was sorry but if she could please trust me, that she would remember more the next morning when she woke up, and feel better. It was heartbreaking.
When we're born as babies, everything in us begins to grow. Our bodies grow bigger and stronger, our minds more experienced and wiser, our hearts stronger and free to love. We grow to be toddlers, children, teenagers, adults. At what point do we start deteriorating? When do we start breaking down and getting weaker? Are our lives, from that point outward, just downhill slopes? Is the rest of time just spent growing smaller and more tired 'till we completely exhaust ourselves and die?
Well, no, I don't think so. Our lives should be measured in more than what's apparent. But how?
A bunch of us went to the beach yesterday. It was beautiful, in spite of gray skies, one of my favorite days of summer. Lauren and I half woke up at numerous times during the night, which is unusual for us.
"Allison!" (I had rolled over to her side).
"Oh, I'm sor-"
"I love you so much!" (Sleepy Lauren embraces me at whatever AM, and doesn't remember it in the morning.)
I'm amazed that some love never, ever stops growing.
I've been working at a nursing home as a server in the dining room, and I really like it. I mean, not the work itself; that part is brainless, mundane, and somewhat clammy, but the old people. There are usually a few frustrating grouchy people, but for the most part, they are amazing, and sometimes my heart swells with love just taking their order for special #1 on the menu, liver and onions.
Honestly, going into the job, I thought that if I derived anything real from it, it would be some sort of acceptance of deterioration and death. And maybe I just haven't been sufficiently immersed yet to gain that perspective, but more than anything, I've been amazed at most of the peoples' positive outlooks towards life. Even people who are in wheelchairs, going blind or deaf, frail and wrinkled, will look at me and smile and comment that it's such a beautiful day.
These people are able to appreciate the simplest, most natural gifts of the world while me and my friends spend time lamenting the impending end of summer, a less exciting night around the bonfire, responsibility of any sort. And I'll bet the old people did the same thing when they were our age, and for years afterward, but maybe it takes us years and years of loss and understanding to gain the most important thing, a sense of gratitude for life.
In other thoughts ... the end of summer
is coming, much sooner than I feel comfortable with. And that's the way it's always been, I guess. The first entry of this particular journal consists of me complaining about the upcoming registration, and worrying about having people at Jesuit, and being sad about my friends leaving -- and yes, I still have apprehensions about these things, but in different ways -- considering everything that happened this year, with finding my own passions in English and Journalism, and becoming close to some of my now-best friends, and cancer all over again, I almost want to laugh. I have to keep the mindset that maybe next year, getting ready to head off to college, what I'm worried about now may seem trivial then, too. Or maybe things really are different.
Relatedly, I have my summer song.
"I'm still singingtwisting new melodies, breaking arrangementsThinking about my heartI guess you've heard, that sometimes it's heavyBut I just keep movingWhen I hit a wall, I look up at the skyThinking about my makerYou know, in spite all this, I know she won't give up on meAnd it's okay for you to care...I only wanted to begin."
