What Doesn’t Diminish
Watching my father age, sometimes with grace and sometimes with challenge, has been an education I never expected to receive.
The truth is, watching someone we love grow older can be difficult.
Not only because we see their life changing, but because somewhere deep inside we are reminded that someday ours will too.
And I think that fear can cause us to look away.
Sometimes as individuals, families, and even as a society, we quietly move our elders to the side. Not because we don’t love them, but because facing the changes of life asks something very difficult from us.
It asks us to remember that we are human.
And when we look away, we risk missing the incredible wisdom, courage, humor, and grace that can only come from a life fully lived.
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I was visiting my dad the other day and it was one of his more challenging days.
He moved a little slower. His thoughts seemed a little heavier. His sense of self was carrying the weight that can come when life begins to change.
I noticed something that day that wasn’t really about what he could or couldn’t do.
It was about the uncertainty.
After almost nine decades of trusting your body and your mind to carry you through this world, how difficult must it be when you start to question where those limits are?
When do I ask for help?
When do I push myself?
When do I accept the hand reaching toward me?
And when do I remember that I am still capable?
Heck, I understand that feeling too, and I’m a good deal younger than him.
Somehow coffee tastes so much better when Sarah brings it to me in the morning! And I love the times she brings it, and I love the times I bring hers.
But underneath all of that, the light I saw that day was the same light that has traveled through almost 89 years of life and experience.
A light shaped by joy and loss, success and failure, laughter and tears.
And through the sheer journey of time, you could see an underlying grace in him.
You could see the man he may have thought he once was…
but the man who still remains.
Grace remains.
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As Sarah and I were getting ready to leave that day, honoring the spirit of how he was feeling, he told Sarah and I:
“When you get older there are so many things that you can’t do anymore.”
And with the state of mind that I was in that day of banter, challenging, and LOVE for this man, I said:
“Yeah Pop, I understand, but there’s one thing that never diminishes no matter how old we get.”
And you could see that piqued his curiosity.
So he paused and asked me:
“What doesn’t diminish?”
Almost as a challenge.
Almost as a hope.
And I said:
“Our capacity to love.”
You could see the tears well up in his eyes. You could feel Sarah draw closer to me.
You could see the heart that was feeling limited and contracted on this day expand and open up.
And he said:
“Yes son, our capacity to love never diminishes.”
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We said goodbye that day not knowing the future.
Not knowing how our bodies will move tomorrow.
Not knowing the sharpness of our minds or the clarity of our senses.
And maybe that uncertainty is what makes aging difficult for us to witness.
Because when we look at those who have walked farther down the path, we are reminded that the path continues for us too.
We become so attached to what these amazing bodies can do.
And they are amazing.
They carry us through life.
They build homes, hold hands, wipe tears, lift children, hug friends, create art, prepare meals, and show up every day in service to the people we love.
There is great beauty in what we can do.
But perhaps life eventually asks us a deeper question.
Who are we beyond what we do?
Our capacity to love.
That deepens.
It deepens when our expectations of outcomes soften.
It deepens when our energy of attraction and aversion wanes.
It deepens as we recognize that what really matters is love.
Connection.
The feeling of presence even in the presence of ache — both of loss and of body.
The feeling we get when we know we are on someone’s mind.
Doesn’t it feel good to get those calls or texts that simply say:
“Hey, I was thinking about you today.”
Or one of my favorites, when Sarah calls me and says:
“I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Gifts, material things, and the resources we share all have their place.
I feel good when I can offer these things to Sarah and the girls, to my son Jeremy, to all the people in my life.
I feel good when I can offer my physical, mental, and emotional resources to my community, my clients, my students, and my family.
But what really makes my heart sing which is much more simpler and causes me those fantastic goosebumps of connection...
Three Little Words
I.
and
Love.
and
You.
The Avett Brothers have a beautiful song by that same name, exploring how three simple words can sometimes be the hardest ones to say.
And yet maybe that’s another gift of a life well lived.
Practice.
Maybe after enough years of loving, losing, laughing, hurting, healing, and opening our hearts again and again…
those words find their way home a little easier.
So we left Dad that day, Sarah and I saying:
“I love you.”
His reply…
“I love you more.”
My reply (I had to have the last word that day):
“Of course Pops. You’ve been at this longer.”
We all smiled knowing the truth and depth of his love.
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ROAR with Love,
Danny
Danny
The Emotional Driver
“Emotion Is the Note. You Are the Song.”
