I met Joanne today.  We walked around the path in the back yard together.  She is sweet and lovely.  I like it that she still has very long hair – much longer than even mine, and that she wears it in a pony tail.  I like this because too many women wear their hair short today, like a man, especially after they reach a “certain age”.  I read an article in the KC paper once that advised that women “should cut their hair at a certain age”…I think that age was 40.  Who writes this stuff?  But I’ve digressed. 

          As I said we had a lovely walk around the back yard.  I think we will fit quite nicely together.  We have similar interests and backgrounds.  Two ballerinas, two bookworms, to long-haired women who value solitude, two “Dundee residents” – one former, one present, two companions on a walk figuratively and literally, two women who stood looking at the decaying garden and feeling the desire to clear away the decaying brush and tidy the garden before winter’s sleep.  She seemed to really like it when I pointed out that we were both wearing blue jeans. 

          Joanne walks with a walker these days and walks quite slowly, shuffling really.  I adjusted my gait to really nothing more than an occasional step every so often with long pauses in between, while she kept up a continual shuffle whose little steps inched us forward on the path to our new friendship.  At one point while we were resting I asked her if she were tired, and she surprised when she drew herself up and with all the pride of a monarch stated, “No.  I never get tired.”  I like that.  My motto has always been, “Never give up, never give up, never give up.”  I’m thinking, while writing this reflection, that I have a lot to learn about the idea of “never give up” from Joanne. 

          We talked a little of ballet and mystery books.  Something caused Joanne anxiety when I brought up Baryshnikov and offered to watch the Nutcracker with her sometime.  She clearly did not want to do that, and I could tell that in my eagerness to create activities that we could enjoy together I had inadvertently caused her to think of something she clearly wanted to leave behind – at least for now, maybe forever.  I think I will stop bringing up the ballet business and let her talk about it if she ever wants to.  I know how frustrating it can be when you are ready to move on to something else in your life – another way of being – and others only want to know you for the things they wish they had done in their life-time or think they could never do. 

          I was struck toward the last part of our visit at her concern for me.  During one of our silent moments, She stated, “You can’t possibly be enjoying this”, or something along those lines.  For clarification, I said something like, you mean walking?  And she said, “Yes, I’m so slow” or somehow made reference to our snail’s pace.  But I could not lie, so I spoke the truth.  “I like to walk and I like it that we are walking slowly.  It gives me time to look around and think about each step.  I like the silence we have between us because I am not always much of a talker.  I live alone and enjoy the solitude.  I like being here with you in this way. 

          So, actually, I am enjoying this very much.”  She seemed to change a little bit after that.  She wanted to ask me questions or find connections it seemed, but sometimes she cannot get the words to form and I can see that frustrates her.  She works and works and works to get the words right, but she cannot make it happen.  And I am struck by how carelessly words come out of our mouths these days via cell phones, e-mails, angry conversations, newspapers, television I suppose because we feel we can always “take it back” or “recant”.  I wonder how much silence and peace we would keep among us if each word we uttered had to be spoken with as much thought and determination as do Joanne’s. 

          I was surprised by her eagerness to give and receive hugs when my visit was over.  I know this was because knowing how she values her privacy, her solitude and her independence, I thought perhaps she might also like to keep a distance from others.  But after our first awkward hug across the barrier of her walker, she pushed it to the side and stood there sort of wobbly the way a very young child stands, and insisted on a full embrace. 

          It was great and I find myself smiling as I remember the way she sort of patted me and sort of makes these little bear-hug sounds when we hug.  We hugged several more times before I left, and I especially love putting my hand on her face.  Her eyes are beautiful as is her whole face, and I guess there was a part of me that just felt the need to frame its beauty and innocence in my own hands, or perhaps I thought if I could just touch it she would know better that that was what I saw in her…beauty and innocence, but not without strength and conviction behind it. 

          I have no doubt that she was as brave and courageous, as beautiful and strong on the stage.  And I wonder if she feels trapped by her body or her surroundings, or frightened by the deterioration of the other three ladies in the household.  I will have to ask someone about the impact of Joanne being the most lucent among others whose decline has already accelerated, and the disease that holds my new friend hostage. 

          I thought of our time together as time spent in a prayer labyrinth and it strikes me now how frequently I hurry through my prayers, while being with Joanne forced me to slow them down.  Actually, I didn’t feel “forced” to slow down as there was simply no reason to hurry or place to hurry to, confined as we were to our path. 

          In our shared silence I remember thanking God several times for the freedom I have to come and go out of this little back yard and this house and even this body, and I wonder if the victims of dementia can at least use their imaginations to escape the confines of what they can no longer remember.  It seems to be a cruel paradox that one day our minds will fail to remember and we have no way of knowing if we can escape that by being granted at least the ability to “remember” how to pray.  Because in prayer we find imagination and in both I find freedom.  Amen.