For years, the limits and suffering that came with my disability actually drove me forward. I have a natural enthusiasm, and with a little courage, I managed to live fully. I threw myself into so many things that my awareness of my infirmity always stayed in the background.
But lately, something has shifted. Movements that hurt. A life in slow motion. The nagging feeling that I am a burden to others, or to society, without giving back enough. All of it invades my mind sometimes, drowning me in discouragement.
Then come the agonizing questions: When will my work life — already so reduced — finally end? Will I be able to imagine tasks that have meaning, and actually do them? As my income drops, as the people who help me grow weary, will my world grow even smaller?
Good sense and faith tell me to push these thoughts away. They drag my spirits down. And proper manners demand I keep quiet about them, so as not to hurt anyone.
How do I resist the urge to take stock? These tallies are negative, harmful, even misleading. Every time I give in to them, I forget the thousand gifts life has given me — my own strength, the joy of friendships. Maybe I should fix my eyes on what Jesus teaches in Matthew's Gospel (18:4): "become like children to enter the kingdom of God." That means moving toward true human fullness, opening myself to real life. What does it mean, at my age, to find a child's heart again?
To lose my keys, or my illusions, without drama. To hold onto dreams that are a little wild. To trust others. To find joy in telling happy stories, in sharing my own gladness. To let myself be comforted. To believe that God is a true Father who counts even the hairs on my head — a Father who has compassion for my weakness and gives me the bread of his grace every day.
Instead of asking uselessly, "What will become of me?" shouldn't I ask: "Who would be happy if I listened to them? Who wants to share their pain and hope with me, so we can carry it together? Who can enrich me with their experience and their energy?"
I thought I could do it alone, and that I should. But now, facing the dreaded threshold of old age, I see that I need others completely.
I thought I could do it alone, and that I should. But now, facing the dreaded threshold of old age, I see that I need others completely.It falls to me to taste the flavor of this present moment — the way a child does — if I want to find lightness in living again. I am discovering that keeping youth alive in my heart is a real struggle against the destructive forces of body and mind. These forces exist in everyone, but my disability brought them out in me early on. I never imagined the fight would be this hard.
I thought I could do it alone, and that I should. But now, facing the dreaded threshold of old age, I see that I need others completely.
I ask you: remind me that life is full of hidden resources. Hold up my courage. Show me you trust me. Make me laugh. Ask me for favors. Remind me of the great problems in the world. Tell me about yourselves. Tell me again, when I forget, that God calls us to a life of intense love — and that HE is its source.
If you help me escape this all-too-familiar "depression of the fifties," I will set out with you again for half a century of rediscovered childhood. And it will be beautiful.
(From Recherches no. 85)
- Marie Baptiste, 2001