I love to allow others to make the prayer for me...
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Story of Ruth
While I was waiting in the front entrance of the nursing home for my elderly friend, the empty living room on my right attracted my attention for some reason. I had about five minutes or so before my friend would be ready and I moved toward the room to get a better look. As I entered I saw a small, frail woman sitting in a wheelchair in the corner of the room, hidden from view.
It was “Her.” It was the one that my friend talked about, the one who is 106 years old. I had, in fact, heard of her before and knew that she had been a celebrated landscape photographer when she was a much younger woman. In her 80s she made portraits of children. I was excited to meet her. I wanted to know her name.
I knelt down in front of her as she took my right hand in hers. I had been told that she does not talk anymore because she is “out of it”. Many of the people living in this home were seemingly separated from the reality of the present moment. So I didn’t question it.
She held my hand tightly as we stared into each other’s eyes. Hers were blue as are mine. What else might we have in common? I was mesmerized by her eyes. They were ancient and red-rimmed. I imagined that I could see her soul shining through her eyes. I was certain she could see mine.
But it was her hands that held my soul in awe. The veins in her hands were prominent. Her fingers seemed to be literally skin and bones, yet the strength in her grip was real, very old and very real. As we continued to stare into each other’s eyes, a strong curiosity about her life journeyed through my mind:
What had these hands done since they were the hands of an infant in 1904? Did that tiny hand clutch her mother’s pinky finger as her mother sang a lullaby? Did she suck her fist or her thumb for comfort? Did she rub her eyes with her hands when she was tired?
How old was she when she first reached out and away from herself in exploration? How old was she when she mastered feeding herself with her fingers? Was she right handed or left handed?
When she was a child did she use her hands to play with dolls or balls? Did she like to dig for worms? Or color? How did she hold her pencil and what did her early handwriting look like? When did she learn to write her name? What was her grown-up handwriting like? Did she like to write letters to far away friends and relatives?
Did she ever learn to play the piano? Did she like to lick her fingers when they were sticky with cake batter? Did she bite her nails or pick her nose? Did the back of her hand ever get slapped because she was naughty? Did the back of her hand ever get kissed by her father after he told her he loved her?
Did she feed and water the animals or sew quilts? Or both? Did these hands ever pick pole beans for supper or arrange flowers cut from the garden she lovingly tended all summer? Or did she collect wild flowers and butterflies and carefully pin them to a board with the genus and species printed below, by her own hand?
Did she work in the fields or in a factory or did she go to school holding book after book in her eager hands? She was only 14 during World War I. How did she use her hands when she was 14?
Women in this country won the right to vote in August 1920. She was 16 in 1920. Did she hold signs in her hands that demanded a woman’s right to vote? Had she ever voted? Where would she put her mark if she could vote today?
How old was she the first time she made love with an adoring partner and how did she caress that lover with her hands? Had she ever been married? Was she gentle with her children or was she impatient and harsh? Could she tell they had a fever by touching their bellies? Did she stroke their hair or rub their backs with a generous touch when they were upset? Or was she hesitant to touch them for some reason? Did she work outside of her home with her hands as well as tend a family? Maybe she has never held a baby in her hands.
Perhaps she preferred to stay celibate and unmarried; a “spinster” because she had ambitions beyond her time; because she loved photography too much to stay home. Was she content to live alone? She was called to the beauty and the power of the ocean. What was the subject of her very first photograph?
How did she use her hands to focus the lens on her camera to capture that image she saw as magnificent? Did she skillfully develop the film in the darkroom of her studio . . . with her own two hands?
Was she a great homemaker or did she have more important things to do with her hands? How many pies had she made with these hands? How many loaves of bread had she kneaded on the kitchen counter with care? Did she put up peaches and pickles and tomatoes for later?
Would she scrub her kitchen floor on her hands and knees or would it not ever occur to her to do such a thing? Did she ever have a cat sit on her lap so she could stroke soft fur with her weary hands on a cold wintry night? How did her hands get so strong?
She was in her late 30s during World War II. Was she in the war or did she stay home and crochet bandages for the wounded soldiers like her grandmother used to do? Maybe she worked in a factory and was a riveter mastering powerful tools with her hands.
How did she use her hands to sooth her worry or stress? Would she rub her forehead or twirl her thumbs? Did her hands ache with arthritis when the weather changed? How did she make the pain go away? How did she put on lotion?
I know that Ruth liked to hold hands, because her grip on me stayed true. I continued to wonder:
Did she clap her hands when she was happy or surprised? Did she cover her mouth when she sneezed? Had she ever had her palm read by a psychic? Did anything from that reading come to pass?
Would she shake her finger at her apprentices when they made a mistake? Did she ever point a finger at something she thought was special? Had she ever given anyone “the finger” in frustration or anger?
Did she still like to eat certain foods with her fingers, like when she was a baby just learning to grasp? I like to eat lettuce with my fingers. Did she ever like to do that too?
Did she ever wear rings . . . or nail polish?
How about lip stick or face powder; did she put these things on, using her hands to make herself feel pretty? How did she brush her hair? Did she ever hold a cigarette? Or smoke a pipe by cradling the pipe in the palm of her hand?
How did she hold her hands when she received a gift?
How did she hold her hands when she prayed?
As we continued to stare into each other’s eyes I asked her name.
She readily answered me saying, “Ruth. My name is Ruth.” For some reason I was not surprised she could be so present with me. I said, “I know that you used to take beautiful photographs.” She stared at me. “I did. I did do that.” Ruth knew she had done that. It was a statement she just made, not a question in her mind. “I did that” she said clearly. Suddenly she raised the back of my right hand to her lips and kissed it deliberately closing her eyes for just a moment.
Then she seemed to fade back into the place in her mind she had been dwelling before our five minutes together. “Thank you Ruth,” I said quietly knowing she may not be able to hear me. I will welcome the day I will look into another’s eyes and proudly say “I did that.” At that moment a nurse came and wheeled Ruth away to continue on with the day. Her life here in this place appeared to be so mundane. Mine will never be the same again.
It was “Her.” It was the one that my friend talked about, the one who is 106 years old. I had, in fact, heard of her before and knew that she had been a celebrated landscape photographer when she was a much younger woman. In her 80s she made portraits of children. I was excited to meet her. I wanted to know her name.
I knelt down in front of her as she took my right hand in hers. I had been told that she does not talk anymore because she is “out of it”. Many of the people living in this home were seemingly separated from the reality of the present moment. So I didn’t question it.
She held my hand tightly as we stared into each other’s eyes. Hers were blue as are mine. What else might we have in common? I was mesmerized by her eyes. They were ancient and red-rimmed. I imagined that I could see her soul shining through her eyes. I was certain she could see mine.
But it was her hands that held my soul in awe. The veins in her hands were prominent. Her fingers seemed to be literally skin and bones, yet the strength in her grip was real, very old and very real. As we continued to stare into each other’s eyes, a strong curiosity about her life journeyed through my mind:
What had these hands done since they were the hands of an infant in 1904? Did that tiny hand clutch her mother’s pinky finger as her mother sang a lullaby? Did she suck her fist or her thumb for comfort? Did she rub her eyes with her hands when she was tired?
How old was she when she first reached out and away from herself in exploration? How old was she when she mastered feeding herself with her fingers? Was she right handed or left handed?
When she was a child did she use her hands to play with dolls or balls? Did she like to dig for worms? Or color? How did she hold her pencil and what did her early handwriting look like? When did she learn to write her name? What was her grown-up handwriting like? Did she like to write letters to far away friends and relatives?
Did she ever learn to play the piano? Did she like to lick her fingers when they were sticky with cake batter? Did she bite her nails or pick her nose? Did the back of her hand ever get slapped because she was naughty? Did the back of her hand ever get kissed by her father after he told her he loved her?
Did she feed and water the animals or sew quilts? Or both? Did these hands ever pick pole beans for supper or arrange flowers cut from the garden she lovingly tended all summer? Or did she collect wild flowers and butterflies and carefully pin them to a board with the genus and species printed below, by her own hand?
Did she work in the fields or in a factory or did she go to school holding book after book in her eager hands? She was only 14 during World War I. How did she use her hands when she was 14?
Women in this country won the right to vote in August 1920. She was 16 in 1920. Did she hold signs in her hands that demanded a woman’s right to vote? Had she ever voted? Where would she put her mark if she could vote today?
How old was she the first time she made love with an adoring partner and how did she caress that lover with her hands? Had she ever been married? Was she gentle with her children or was she impatient and harsh? Could she tell they had a fever by touching their bellies? Did she stroke their hair or rub their backs with a generous touch when they were upset? Or was she hesitant to touch them for some reason? Did she work outside of her home with her hands as well as tend a family? Maybe she has never held a baby in her hands.
Perhaps she preferred to stay celibate and unmarried; a “spinster” because she had ambitions beyond her time; because she loved photography too much to stay home. Was she content to live alone? She was called to the beauty and the power of the ocean. What was the subject of her very first photograph?
How did she use her hands to focus the lens on her camera to capture that image she saw as magnificent? Did she skillfully develop the film in the darkroom of her studio . . . with her own two hands?
Was she a great homemaker or did she have more important things to do with her hands? How many pies had she made with these hands? How many loaves of bread had she kneaded on the kitchen counter with care? Did she put up peaches and pickles and tomatoes for later?
Would she scrub her kitchen floor on her hands and knees or would it not ever occur to her to do such a thing? Did she ever have a cat sit on her lap so she could stroke soft fur with her weary hands on a cold wintry night? How did her hands get so strong?
She was in her late 30s during World War II. Was she in the war or did she stay home and crochet bandages for the wounded soldiers like her grandmother used to do? Maybe she worked in a factory and was a riveter mastering powerful tools with her hands.
How did she use her hands to sooth her worry or stress? Would she rub her forehead or twirl her thumbs? Did her hands ache with arthritis when the weather changed? How did she make the pain go away? How did she put on lotion?
I know that Ruth liked to hold hands, because her grip on me stayed true. I continued to wonder:
Did she clap her hands when she was happy or surprised? Did she cover her mouth when she sneezed? Had she ever had her palm read by a psychic? Did anything from that reading come to pass?
Would she shake her finger at her apprentices when they made a mistake? Did she ever point a finger at something she thought was special? Had she ever given anyone “the finger” in frustration or anger?
Did she still like to eat certain foods with her fingers, like when she was a baby just learning to grasp? I like to eat lettuce with my fingers. Did she ever like to do that too?
Did she ever wear rings . . . or nail polish?
How about lip stick or face powder; did she put these things on, using her hands to make herself feel pretty? How did she brush her hair? Did she ever hold a cigarette? Or smoke a pipe by cradling the pipe in the palm of her hand?
How did she hold her hands when she received a gift?
How did she hold her hands when she prayed?
As we continued to stare into each other’s eyes I asked her name.
She readily answered me saying, “Ruth. My name is Ruth.” For some reason I was not surprised she could be so present with me. I said, “I know that you used to take beautiful photographs.” She stared at me. “I did. I did do that.” Ruth knew she had done that. It was a statement she just made, not a question in her mind. “I did that” she said clearly. Suddenly she raised the back of my right hand to her lips and kissed it deliberately closing her eyes for just a moment.
Then she seemed to fade back into the place in her mind she had been dwelling before our five minutes together. “Thank you Ruth,” I said quietly knowing she may not be able to hear me. I will welcome the day I will look into another’s eyes and proudly say “I did that.” At that moment a nurse came and wheeled Ruth away to continue on with the day. Her life here in this place appeared to be so mundane. Mine will never be the same again.
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