Saying all the wrong things.


I've just read a  recent post by Anne Lamott, a "desperately trying to keep it together" post trying to address issues thrown up by the recent death of Robin Williams. I like Annes writing a lot, I like the way she writes, her ability to articulate feelings that  I share but can't pin down myself. The simple and unpretentious  love that comes through in her writing, she cares, it's not something she tries at, she just can't not care. There is no doubt she is one of the nice people, that help make this a better world.
Yesterday, my journey took me through Beauvais, in France, where I enjoyed a pleasant lunch sat on a bench in warm sunshine in the town square. Overlooked at one end by a large and imposing stone building, its ornate stones mellow with age to the colour of honey, the square is bordered on its other sides by modern department stores with a scattering of interesting Bookshops, chic Cafes with tables spilled onto the pavement and  dingy Tabacs with cluttered windows. A pleasant wind teased the plumes of a fountain that played into a pool that reflected the shape of the space. As though riding on the crest of this tireless wave a handsome and noble looking peasant woman cast in bronze swept away all before her, her long skirts frozen into an flowing swirl around her as she prepared another sweeping stroke of the lethal two handed cleaver she fiercely wielded. Representing the revolution she was both beautiful and frightening, I paused before her a few moments to admire her courage and dignity, before I move on. Fifty yards away a man slouched on the pavement outside a  bookshop that was having its front repainted. Olive skinned, he wasn't a young man, at least my age or likely a little older. He leaned against the wall heavily, resting on the haunch of his right leg that was folded flat on the pavement the ankle hooked behind his left foot, his left leg crooked upright with his left arm resting on top of his raised knee. He was half turned facing us as we approached. I walked with my Grandson enjoying his company, our mood was light, I didn't notice the man him until I was almost on top of him, his eyes flickered up to mine for the briefest moment then away. A walking stick leaned against the wall next to him, he didn't look well, unfit, overweight, his face sallow and puffy.  I'd passed him by the time I stopped, he didn't turn. I felt his pain in the pit of my stomach.  I removed two, two Euro coins from my wallet, all the change I had. In the moment that our eyes met I saw not pain or hunger, not frustration or even despair, but defeat. If that's all it had been it would have been okay, but it wasn't; it was more than that, it was defeat and acceptance and resignation, it was minute by minute, it was hour by hour, it was day by dreary, fucking day. He was beyond beaten, he didn't speak he just sat with his arm resting wearily on his knee, his palm upturned. I turned back and pressed the coins into his hand. I couldn't bring myself to look into his eyes a second time, As I walked away I heard him thanking me with a soft, sincere voice, I looked at my grandson, forced a smile and carried on the conversation we were having. It cut to my heart. There was a time some years ago when I wouldn't have bothered, but I learned something, now I try to give, I don't judge. I doubt the money will make any difference, maybe he will buy food, maybe he will buy alcohol or drugs or maybe he will put it in the bank along with the other tens of thousands of Euros he has. ( I really don't believe the latter.) So what will it achieve, is it really about me, so I can feel self righteous and good about myself. If anything, what I would hope, is that for a moment, even if it only lasts a second or two, he can see a little bright in his darkness.
So what's to say Anne? I greatly admire your faith, it is truly wonderful and it must be a great comfort to you, in honesty I envy it.  To be received into Gods tender love when we die is a thought so beautiful it makes my heart ache, to be also welcomed by our Mothers love, is more wondrous than I can imagine. Am I being presumptuous that all those departed who have ever been dear to me will also receive me with love. With this kind of faith when faced with the choice some short years ago to follow the dearest person I have ever known, I would not have hesitated. Alas, I do not share such a faith. ( If you imagine I am mocking you, it is not only me to whom you do an injustice). I don't have a friend of the cloth to guide and enlighten me and yet I can already imagine  them telling me it's not quite like that. You see, there's always a catch. So what then is the alternative? Can it really be that  this life is the highest manifestation of Gods love?
Maybe there's no order to it, maybe it doesn't make sense, maybe it's not meant to, some people get a crap deal, that's just how it is, there's no fairness, there's just every day and all we can do is wearily hold out our hand and see what, if anything, ends up in it.
 And so we live with the Abyss, we stare into it every day, I've lived with it for what seems  a long time now. Tomorrow, for me, the sun will come up, of that I'm sure, it is not the only thing I am sure of. I don't pretend to know where we came from or what it's all about but I know at the end there will be the Abyss, Oblivion, it is inevitable and inescapable. I don't think it's such a scary place, it holds an odd fascination and Oblivion is kind of soft and fuzzy at it's edges; warm, not unfriendly. I have to ask why shouldn't we choose the time?