|Both illustrations by Wolf Erlbruch.|
To apply one's self to the care of. To watch over.
How do we see to one another, not allow any of us to disappear beneath the waves of ordinary misfortune? That, I believe, is our Work.
My list of Those Most Dear leans toward the simultaneously blessed and cursed whose minds and works reveal them to be angels, possibly gods in human form to whom sorrow is no stranger.
Poets, musicians, writers, painters, performers, shamans, samaritans, cooks, teachers, healers, fliers at all altitudes, entrepreneurs, intuitives, we are all richer for what you bring to our days. That your own days have been, and frequently continue to be filled with illness, loss, trauma, lack, terror, pain and bewilderment has not stopped you, has rarely slowed you down.
My tending, if such were possible, would be a continual disbursement of care packages filled with everything you need most: health, peace, strength, optimism, guarantee of a desired outcome, the meeting of every possible physical, material and spiritual need, humor and music and beauty and light and love. My tending would bring, to the outer edge of anyone's ability, safety. The unknown will always be part of this existence but it would not be the lurking, crouching thing-behind-the-door that it has become. A margin of security is not too much to ask.
I would walk you in your fishbowl, groom and stroke your dear warty head, smooth your collar and see that your necktie was properly knotted. I would send what is warm (or cool) and bright, lend my own solid arm to lean upon, install elevators where needed and employ reliable, skilled craftspeople to fix whatever required mending. Going without would no longer be the only option.
My life is continually blessed and illuminated by those who tend to me. One profound reminder of such tending hangs on my bedroom wall, an assemblage that proclaims, "I get by with a little help from my friends." So do we all. xo