Ma lives in the moment. The epitome of Zen. Not the way some lotus-seated Lululemon-clad JewBu practitioners wish for. She is in this moment.
This moment.
This moment.
This moment.
Someday, I will write a book, in the long history of “Zen and…” and call it Zen and my Ma. The Tao of Ma. Because no one understands being in the moment more than a dementia patient. Except she doesn’t really understand, for that she’d have to be able to step outside the moment to understand, and she is in this moment.
She craves, no, requires an anchor. My home, specifically her blue bedroom here, is that anchor and I need to remember because she can’t and even when she does remember, when she’s in bed, looking around, saying “This is my room. I AM home,” the knowing is gone…just like that.
On a free day last autumn I suggested a drive up the Hudson to:
– look for the changing fall foliage; or
– because driving along any river is nice; or
– maybe we’d stop at some cute town (like Pleasantville, which has a good side, and a less good side, but is indeed, quite pleasant).
We stopped for hot chocolate; she sat at our window table while I got hot chocolate (her), dirty chai (me), and some baked treats (us). She sat quietly, until she began to panic. What if Jodi falls? What if Jodi never comes back to the table? Where am I? Who can I call and how do I call…? There was such a look of relief on her face when I returned with warm drinks and baked treats. I’d been fifteen feet away. Fifteen feet may as well be fifteen miles if we’re somewhere she doesn’t recognize for some reason she cannot understand.
But, where were we going, she asked, again and again. And I understood then, aimless drives, aimless walks, just to be out and see nature and fresh air and sun and leaves are exactly that when you are in this moment, this moment, this moment. Aimless. Unmoored. Lost. Without a destination, there is no anchor. With no clear plan of going somewhere, no “there” to get to, there is also no clear plan on how to get home.
And home, that’s the anchor.
This year, when we wanted to see trees and changing foliage I drove into Manhattan and let her discover a brand new place to fall in love with.
Why didn’t I ever know about this place? What’s it called?
Central Park. We can be there–or home–in under thirty minutes, there are skaters and singers, bridges, zoos, fountains and lakes and hills that take some serious effort to push a wheelchair up despite being described as “accessible.” There was free music we paid two dollars to listen to. A man making giant soap bubbles. She found children to chat with. Toddlers and children on skateboards, in strollers, on bicycles with training wheels, or walking along holding hands with a grown up, they are eye level for her as she sits in her wheelchair. Smiles and conversations flow naturally, as they roll along together.
Did you know about this place?
Special thanks for Olmstead & Vaux for creating “this place.”
