Life, at either end of the age spectrum, calls us to be present to the moment. Working part time at a department store, I have seen many young women freshly entered into the ranks of motherhood pushing tiny bundles of life through the maze of racks and displays. Babies are people magnets, pulling in customers and store associates alike to get a closer look and see if they can coax a smile from faces intent on making some sense of a world of stimuli yet to be organized in baby brains. Tired eyes and slow steps sometimes betray the struggle new mothers have learning to fit sleep into their radically changed schedules.
On the other end of life’s journey are the elderly. They have traveled the majority of their paths, arriving at a place where they need help to live through each day. A few days a week, I spend time at a nursing home, visiting my father and chatting with other residents. Some are cognizant of their situation; others ask where they are going and if they need a coat every time an aide comes to wheel them down to the dining room. They are affectionately cared for by staff, and most have family members who regularly spend time with them.
The mother of three adult offspring, I know well not only the long, late hours of raising young children, but also the reminder they can be to slow down and notice the world that became a blur as I careened through it. Anyone who has taken a walk with a toddler knows what I mean. If you need to get to the post office, be sure you add an extra forty-five minutes or so to get there because your young companion stops every few steps to examine a rock, blade of grass, piece of litter, and anything else on her path. Always learning, always curious, she will ask for explanations. A loving creature, she will also insist that you share her wonder and smell the flower, feel the grass, and rub your fingers over the stones.
If the parent is willing to slow down and learn, he is treated to a refresher course on the glory of creation and the sweet rewards of walking through it at a pace that allows him to appreciate it.
Elderly parents and friends give us the same gift if we are open to receive it. The other night, while sharing dinner with my father, I remembered a truth about myself that I tend to forget: I eat too fast for any good other than eventual renewal of energy. I don’t chew my food thirty times, wisdom I have heard some attribute to the Buddhists. I am lucky if I mash the stuff five or six times before swallowing it and starting on the next bite. The slow, meticulous eating habits of my elderly parent are an extreme foil to my unhealthy habit of finishing dinner in five or ten minutes max.
Last night I decided I should try to actually taste the chicken salad sandwich on wheat that I had purchased at the café. The cool crunch of celery and creamy smoothness of finely chopped chicken tossed with mayonnaise not only tasted good, but also felt good in my mouth. I savored my iced tea and the oatmeal raisin cookie that went with it. I still beat dad by forty-five minutes, but I had actually enjoyed my dinner.
After dinner we took a walk. From his wheelchair vantage point, Dad pointed out robins listening for worms and grubs and sparrows plucking dandelion seeds off silvery-globed stems. We parked his wheelchair by a bench and watched a mother goose turn her eggs and settle back onto her nest (Her busy time is coming!) A lone mallard made a shining wake in the water and airplanes soaring silently above us decorated the sky with sun-brightened contrails.
“Slow down” the young and old remind us. I am never disappointed when I do. Thank you to the children and the aged that we are privileged to know and care for. Thank you. You are the Creator’s messengers to the hurried ones who are trampling without a thought, through wonders.