We make a distinction between what is natural and what is man-made. We think of wood as natural and plastic as man-made. 

Wikipedia describes “rock” as “any naturally occurring solid mass or aggregate of minerals or mineraloid matter,” while concrete is man-made from cement, sand, and gravel. Glass is natural and man-made. Natural glass is called obsidian. Man-made glass is made from natural materials that are heated at very high temperatures.

“Man-made things are created or caused by people, rather than occurring naturally.” (Collins dictionary)

If we human beings are part of nature instead of separated observers of nature, then the distinction between man-made and natural becomes meaningless. 

Glass, concrete, plastic, styrofoam, cell phones and hydrogen bombs are natural. They are made by animals who live on this planet and use the elements that are available to them to make things that haven’t been made before. All matter is made up of elements. 

We think of humans as disrupting patterns of nature when we build highways across wildlife habitats. And when we release pollutants that cause acid rain.

But we are nature and the things we produce can only be natural. 

A fuzz-covered velcro ball, hooks so matted that nothing will stick.

A hand grasping for another’s, slipping under the water through waving fronds.

Headphones worn to drown out reality.

Waking up – finding the bed has fallen away, replaced by nothing.

Standing at the top of the waterfall, feeling the pull of the current.

A raisin, floating in overcooked oatmeal.

Eyes closed, the only sound, tinnitus.

I’m lonely

I’ve been stopped by the need to ask people to drive me to medical appointments. With upcoming knee surgery, I am going to need a lot of assistance. I’ve always thought of myself as willing to ask for help but there’s something different this time. In the past, when I’ve needed help, I’ve just asked. This step feels like giving up my autonomy – help now and then is one thing, but help for an extended period of time feels like the beginning of becoming old and dependent.

I think: I shouldn’t use up all my offers of help now; I will need more help in the future. There’s only so much help I can ask for.

I think: I haven’t helped other people enough to warrant being helped. (I have to be reminded that I have contributed to the sustenance of the community – giving rides to young people, supporting people in communicating with each other, driving to medical appointments and being part of end-of-life care.      

I think: I’m not worthy. A friend pointed out that there are people who find joy in providing help. I’ve seen that particularly clearly with several people around me. But I hadn’t thought of it in terms of they would find joy in helping me.

So yesterday I did send an email to the people I think I remember have offered to help me, asking for those willing to give me rides to local medical appointments to let me know. I was surprised there were 10 people on my list. And I’ve already had several positive responses.

I listened to the messages in Quaker Meeting. Each person gave a message consistent with other messages that have come through their personalities. I smiled as a didactic message, a scolding message and a fear and celebration message were given. I did not tense up inside or say to myself, “Here we go again.” I felt a little judgment but at the same time I felt generous and compassionate. 

I found myself surrounded by these feelings for a week or more. I received each message on its own terms without impatience or evaluation. They flowed in and over me. Then, as I got tense with detailed editing work and concerns about my possible memory loss, I found myself more judgmental, more impatient, even cranky.

I discover over and over that when I feel accepting and happy and generous with myself, I naturally extend the same to others. As I cramp up, pull inward, hide or wilt, I become disconnected from myself and I break the easy connections I’ve had with others.

I have been listening to the Bengsons, Sean and Abigail — their songs and interviews — almost nonstop for the past several months. I didn’t know why. I felt almost as if I had a crush on them. As a young person, even in the age of Elvis Presley and the Beattles, I never fell hard for an artist or a band. (I used to listen to Johnny Mathis when I needed to cry — does that count?) And here I was listening day after day to this couple play songs in their pandemic bedroom and roar on stage with Abigail pounding a drum and screaming, “I want 100 days.” I’m watching their son sled down a hill in silent snow and Sean dance with a man to music they’ve written for a play performed, once, in a theater in Louisville at the beginning moment of the pandemic. 

I’ve come to realize that I am mothered by this couple who are young parents. They live in authenticity and create the environment I wish I’d grown up in. Their work reflects what they are wrestling with now. Tenderness, strength, tears, joy and sorrow are greeted and balanced and worked through. Listening, again and again, to their stories restores my equilibrium in the challenges I face now. And I listen yet again.

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