When We Notice What Has Been There All Along

At sunset on the bridge. In December.

Nothing like a serious illness in the household to force one to slow down and notice nature. I did not invent that particular koan, but now I get to live it. Day by day.

My husband’s only weekly adventures this December are several late afternoon trips to aqua therapy. We muster up all of our collective strength and energy to transport him there and back, to get him into and out of the pool safely, then into and out of the shower where he can only stand up briefly by grasping onto the special railing, grasping with a diminishing grasp. He’s 63 and has ALS.

I dry him off after the pool and dress him in his wheelchair. I cut his nails while they’re damp. We both try to find the humor when we can. We make jokes about the blowdryer.

When we drive home we try to take scenic routes. This time of year we notice all of the holiday lights in doorways and driveways. We notice all of the deer that cross the roads. It’s deer mating season and they’re posing in the fields and in the parks. At dusk.

We notice every smooth, repaved roadway. We notice the sun setting on the lake as we cross the long bridge. We notice the geese in formation, silhouetted in the twilight.

We notice all of the roadkill. We remember in South Dakota years ago when we came across Sioux placing small individual blankets on roadkill until it could be collected. They notice.

I see life these days through my husband’s eyes. Were there so many poignant details to notice prior to illness? Of course there were.

But we were in a rush then. A rush to make the light, to get home, to do this, to do that, hither and tither. Not noticing. Blind in the low-light days.

Now there’s stillness and quiet. And noticing.