The incredible wonders of life
/The Boston Herald
BEVERLY BECKHAM
'What I wish is that I could do all the things I used to hate to do - cut the grass, wait in line."
That's what he said. And that's what I've thought about since Thursday night when he said it.
The young man was on "48 Hours," a boy from Milford who caught a wave on Martha's Vineyard the wrong way last Labor Day weekend and is now a paraplegic. "48 Hours" filmed his long, slow days of recovery and therapy and adjustment. It was a superb documentary because it didn't gloss over pain.
What you saw was raw courage and determination and great love, not just his mother's love, but his therapists' love, too.
But you also saw regret and sadness because the truth is when you can walk and talk and wipe your own tears, you don't think much about these things. It's only when you lose what you have that you recognize the gifts they were. It's only in hindsight that we human beings ever truly appreciate all the miracles in life.
Why is this? Why are we so incredibly dumb about what's most important?
The sun shines, birds sing, flowers bloom, we wake up, get out of bed, walk down stairs, put on coffee. Ordinary things, breathing, walking, seeing. But miraculous things, too.
We're born knowing this.
Catherine Rose is almost 2 and she still knows. She sits and blows bubbles and grabs at each. She races over to the M&M jar and takes a handful, and one by one puts them in a Ziploc bag. She pours water from her plastic teapot into her plastic cup and then sips, genteelly. She plays "Ring Around the Rosie" with an old woman in a wheelchair. She chases the cat.
If only we could bottle this, we who are watching her say. If only we could keep this wonder that we're born with.
What happens to it? Does it start to evaporate the first time we sit somewhere wishing we were somewhere else? Does it dissipate every time we stand in front of a mirror wishing we were someone else? Does our ingratitude about our looks and our lives make it disappear? Or is it the mess we've made of our lives that depletes it?
Up early, to bed late, traffic everywhere, no one polite, recorded voices on the phone, dial one for this and two for that, so busy you eat in the car, so tired you sleepwalk through the days.
And the days go by and you're just getting through them, and life doesn't feel like a miracle at all. It feels like a never-ending chore.
All the time my mother was alive and disabled, I was acutely aware of the small miracles in life. Because she could do nothing, I knew I had to do everything and appreciate all I was doing because I was doing it for her, too.
Mowing the grass, weeding, vacuuming the house, changing the curtains, shopping, even ironing - she would have given years to do any of these things. So I cherished their mundane wondrousness.
How long after she died did "I want to cut the grass" turn into "I have to cut the grass"? I hear myself these days and I think, who is this ungrateful person talking?
What I wish is that I could do all the things I used to hate to do - cut the grass, wait in line.
A young man's words reminded me of what I used to know. I'd been watching the world come to life, but spring hadn't touched my soul. I'd been looking at the green grass and the trees like lace and the daffodils perky as always.
But I wasn't.
I had let the world with its problems and portents hide what is good that is in front of me, and within me, and within us all.
