How do you describe the beauty of being in the present moment?

A day at the Beach

It was a day at the beach, planned by my girlfriend, Debbie, and me. The plan was to take Debbie’s sister, Judy, and my mother along with us, as we often did. Judy lived with Debbie, as my mother lived with me, but there was at least twenty-five-years age difference between Judy and my mother, my mother being the older one. Judy and my mom were walking ahead of us on the beach. It was a beautiful, sunny day with seagulls flying above. You knew you were on the beach by the smell of the sea and sound of the waves. The negative ions that are released from the water, always made us feel good.

Walking behind Judy and my mom gave Debbie and me time to catch up with conversation. Debbie and I were bonded with the commonality of being caregivers. Judy had an unsteady gait, which presented a problem with the lumpy sand under her feet. My mother walked slowly, watching Judy carefully and ready to give support so she wouldn’t fall. They would take short pauses, allowing Judy to adjust her gait.

You couldn’t help but canvass their faces. The tenderness of my mother’s eyes focusing on Judy’s unsteady motion, and the pure trust that Judy had in her to keep her safe, was priceless. Only Debbie and I could have understood that. Judy, being mentally challenged like my mother, gave that moment a greater tenderness.

My daughter would say, “They’re special.” The expressions on their faces were pure and angelic. There was never anything false in their personalities. They didn’t know how to be anything besides themselves. Although they were challenged in many ways, they were also refreshing because they didn’t spend their lives hiding behind veils. Because of the age difference, Judy felt like she was the one to be protective towards my mom. Judy felt good about that. Always having to be dependent on someone else herself, it somehow increased Judy’s self-esteem to have this responsibility.

But in this moment, my mother was the one protecting Judy. If you didn’t understand the dynamics of the relationship, it would appear it was just two people walking the beach. The exchange of affection was immaculate. Like the bounteous, white cloud formation that hung over them in the sky, it was untainted in its form and uncontrolled. Judy’s unsteadiness in her body was the same way. It appeared to be in slow motion as Judy grabbed my mother’s arm, knowing her own limitations, and where to put her faith. We noticed the pureness of the visual that heaven was calling to our attention.

Somehow, when writing this, it brings to mind the the thought of a toddler when the mother brings her to the water for the first time at the beach and squats down to the child’s eye level, the mother and child together experiencing the soft waves that reach your feet gently, at the right temperature. They wait where all the shells come to shore as gravity pulls the water to your feet, and it curls around your toes.

The child, not quite steady in her stance, places her arm on her mother for support, and Mom is available. As she looks up with Shirley Temple-curls softly framing her face, like ribbons twirling in the sky, her eyes are full of light and wonderment which hasn’t been tarnished with living a long life. The child, who no so long ago left the comfort of formless as she entered into the world of form, is still very much in touch with that. Who wouldn’t notice that?

But because of Debbie’s and my love for Judy and my mom, we didn’t see what society doesn’t consider beauty or normal, like their aging bodies, that no longer represent their younger days, and the graying hair, which has replaced their own natural color from their youth. That was erased by the simple undiluted energy that was exchanged between them. I looked at Debbie as they walked back towards us and said, “We should have gotten a picture of that.” But as I’m writing this, a camera representing an external object, humanely put together would have somehow taken away from what was meant to be eternal. Now the lens of our eyes, created its own imprint in our souls.

As I was writing this, I realized what touched me so. It was my mother, mothering Judy. Mothering was something I missed a lot in my own youth. The mother I remembered was when I was young and had my tonsils out. I was in my crib in the hospital and had woken up in a dark room. I was standing in my crib scared and in a strange environment, wondering where my mother was. Suddenly, a door opened quietly, and a dim light came shining through, just enough to see it was my mom and dad.

My Mom’s hair was full of curls, and her big smile showed off the white teeth of her youth. I reached out to her, and she reassured me. Her love for me was complete. I responded in that same need that exchanged between Judy and my mom on the beach, a need for her presence, which was a distant memory of a mother I had long ago lost. I now had the glimpse of what that must have felt like.

It’s moments like those at the beach that replenish the body and soul of a caregiver. It forces you to see past the burden of being responsible for another life. It’s the gift that is given from God to edify your Spirit, so you may continue. And when those gifts arrive, it’s soft and non-intrusive. Intuitively you invite it in. It speaks where your highest self resides so there is no misunderstanding. I always knew in that scared place, that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing in my life. That was taking care of my mother, as if I had decided that before I was born. It was something that was innate and predestined.

There were many of times I wanted out, not completely but just for a rest. My girlfriend, Debbie used to say, “They’re our ticket to heaven.” And as I am aging, I will try to use that ticket to get in. Alexandrine was a handful. That’s my mom’s name. And as unusual as her name, so was she.

This is from my memoir, “Alexandrine and Me.”