Accidental Blessings

Hello Everyone,

It has been suggested, strongly suggested, that I add something more personal perhaps with a bit of emotion, prior to posting Part 2 of Speeding Through the Universe. Words like “boring your readers”, “lose interest” and others, were bantered about. I argued against any delays citing “ground breaking contributions to the human understanding of our Cosmos”. Even if laden with facts, figures and charts, the drawings alone could be considered high art. So, which argument prevailed?

Please accept the following story written a few years back.

Best Regards,

Paul/TJ

Accidental Blessings

I enjoy working with modern, state of the art photo-reproduction equipment. Spending more than a few hours on a regular basis at Kinko’s. Santa Barbara’s go-to office supply, photocopy and shipping center. Long before there was FedEx or any of the others, there was Kinko’s. It was here I would be making copies of treasured, family photographs. I had been here the day before and expected the same smooth sailing.  Nothing however would prepare me for what occurred that bright sunny day in September.

The process of making photo-copies of color images involves multiple technical steps and a touch of creativity should editing or color correction be required. The special paper used is fairly expensive, so to minimize cost I grouped them 4 to a page. Sounds easy enough but each photo must be scanned in separately, one at a time. Each image is held in memory then assigned a position within the grouping of 4. It takes approximately 10-15 minutes per page so; at the end of an hour, I end up with 16-24 pictures that must then be trimmed to size. I do not mind the process as it affords me an opportunity to relive some of the moments if only in my mind. Some of them leave me bursting with emotion and nearly paralyzed.

I had just scanned in the first of four photographs that would make up my initial run for the morning. As I began to slide a second image onto the glass, I felt the presence of someone standing beside and slightly to the rear of me, patiently waiting her turn at “my machine”.

Oh no. I just started. So much more to do. Should I let her “butt” in? How long will she be? Why can’t she sit down and wait here turn instead of pressuring me? Woe is me. Not exactly my high self. Mercifully, my cerebral meltdown was over in a few seconds with no one but me the wiser. Thank God.

Note to self: Do better next time.

I glanced over in a way as to avoid detection and could see that she was clutching a few tiny photographs. She held them tightly, close to her heart and stared down at them lovingly. I then turned completely around and was immediately drawn into her warm brown eyes. I said to this maybe 5 ft. tall woman that it would be alright for her to jump in and make her copies now. I can wait. She smiled and in a soft but noticeably European accent, sheepishly said: “No, no, thank you, please you finish, I wait. It is ok”. I sensed however, that her purpose for being here today was more important than my own.

I repeated my offer stopping short of a firm insistence. She again smiled and with tears welling told me that the pictures she held were of her child, her only child. She began to cry. Not heavily but with a controlled sadness. Instinctively, my hand reached out and found itself on her shoulder. Whatever comfort I could offer would never be enough. But it was a gesture I could not resist. Before I could speak, she went on to tell me her son Dimitre was killed in a diving accident near one of the islands off the Santa Barbara coast. He was 19 years old. My heart sank for her and all others that have endured the unspeakable horror of losing a child.

I told her that I wassorry. “What a terrible thing to happen”. She thanked me and said that she had come from Moscow just last week to bury him. The photographs she held, perhaps 2 inches square, were the only pictures she had of her son. In addition to making copies, she also wanted to enlarge them, I surmised to make them more life like.

I stood there a moment with her and felt a strange connection. Perhaps it was the bond created by the compassion or empathy one human can have for another at a time like this. Maybe it was the son in me identifying with the pain felt by a mother who had just lost most of her life as well. Or, the reverse scenario I experienced when my mom passed away suddenly when she was only 58 years old. I was 35. The memory of holding her in my arms during our last moments together is etched into every part of my being. I wonder sometimes if my mother perhaps felt this way each time she held me as a child. A complete and perfect bond, unconditional and eternal.

I sprung into work mode. Get it done. Scan, enlarge, print. Then it hit me. This was not about me or getting it done. This was about helping another human being navigate the most difficult time of her life. The moments she shared with Dimitre during his young incomplete life would have to sustain her for the rest of hers. There would be no others. The images she now holds of her son would be the only physical reminders of their life together, indelible moments that would be relived through these photographs.

Copies were made for several relatives and we enlarged each to a size suitable for framing. Their quality was surprisingly good. She was pleased, grateful and I think somewhat relieved. We hugged and parted ways.

I too was pleased. Grateful, for my experience that morning. What a gift. To have shared something so profound. An emotional encounter usually reserved for a close family member or best friend. A moment born from tragedy. But where is it written that we share in only the joys of strangers? In that hour of that day at Kinko’s I was blessed. It felt big. I felt good. By reaching out if only just a little, I was rewarded with a lifelong memory.

Thank you for listening.

Regards,

Paul/TJ

My After Take

I’m surprised at times by those who attempt to avoid or short circuit the grieving process. Granted, this is usually someone commenting on another’s tragedy. Yet, I do believe we as Americans have a difficult time dealing with grief. Perhaps it’s our preoccupation with being happy all of the time. Sad is bad. Think positive and so forth.

Popular refrains include: “let’s put this behind us”, “don’t dwell on it”, “move beyond it”, “close this chapter and embrace the future”. “Let the healing begin so that we can move on” is perhaps most startling for me. The reality is more challenging. You cannot move on until you have actually grieved for however long it takes. There are no short cuts. No fast track back to your normal life. The best I think we can hope for after a loss is to find a place in our hearts to hold that grief. Then live with it as it evolves over time. It is now a part of us and not meant to be shed. Grief can be a lasting tribute as part of the memories we carry of a loved one. This is a thing of beauty. Why would we want it any other way. As Tennyson so aptly said; “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”. This is what makes us whole, makes us human. At the end of the day, we should not attempt to move on but rather to move forward. That’s my take anyway.

Paul

Note: The Memory Bell, not Memorial Bell pictured above and to the left, was a gift from my mother-in-law Eleanor. I installed it on the gate of a newly built fence a few years ago. Every time I pass through this gate I ring the bell twice. Once to envision or conjure up a memory of Eleanor. The second chime is for my mother. No matter how brief the interlude, I am warmed and comforted. I highly recommend this practice.