The Truth of the Moment
By Patty Dunn ~ When asked to consider speaking at last month's Volunteer Appreciation Dinner about what CfS has meant to me, I instantly felt awash in memories and stories of the people I’ve met along my way. The remembering led me to reflect on what I’ve learned. I wondered if they knew their impact on me and the teachers they’ve been—all while they were leaving this world, or walking beside them.
Many teachers (clients, co-workers, volunteers) have shaped how I see the world and move through it. And the learning continues…
I’ve learned how porous my boundaries are. I’ve learned that policies and procedures are sometimes lofty goals, and not always realistic guideposts in the split second you’re under pressure to respond. And sometimes your response is a knee-jerk reaction that in retrospect might require a “clean up on aisle 7.”
When a client asked me, “What’s the difference between a volunteer and a friend?”, I gulped. I consciously slowed the rhythm of my breathing while I struggled with my increasing sense of inadequacy in the face of her question. I felt her loneliness, her longing for real and trusting connections like the ones her volunteers had shown her was possible. I sensed her hunger for more: to be truly seen and valued just as she was. I wondered how much, or if, she’d ever truly tasted that kind of connection. As I carefully chose my words, aware of the limiting boundaries of my role, and moved by the fragile vulnerability of her question, I answered. Instead of obediently reciting the volunteer policy, which honestly would’ve been easier, I locked eyes with her. As we gazed into each other’s eyes, I felt her—and I felt me. I was instantly aware of my own loneliness and longing while I caught a glimpse of the depth of hers. It was a profound moment of revelatory connection--one strangely devoid of words and a moment when the loneliness seemed to recede. I’m sure, knowing me, I spoke to her with too many words—hoping they would insulate me from the fear and worry that I might not get it right and that I just wasn’t enough. I wanted to meet her exquisite question with the courageous truth it deserved. I wanted to honor both of us—but something bigger than us. I recalled the wisdom of the adage: com-passion is shared suffering. In that moment it occurred to me that this was it. The bold outlines of our roles were muted. We were two imperfect humans, softened by our shared tenderness and its power to dissolve the distance between us.
There are thousands of memories that continue to inform how and what I do—in life, in showing up for people as it is ending, and in the grief of its entire lifespan and aftermath. (My self-doubt still gives me fits and drives my capacity to be overly talkative.) But when I unearth, or un-word, the essence of what remains, it’s gratitude. Not the diluted, overused, and therefore insincere-sounding version, but the kind that comes when you let yourself and life BE as it is—in all of its dripping beauty and ugliness—not trying to cover it up with nice smells and attractive outfits and a pretense that it’s not there—but allowing the truth of the moment and a willingness to see it with tenderness, show you the way.
Patty Dunn is a former Hospice Care Coordinator and current volunteer.