With permission from the author Sharyn Fields, a local columnist, here is an exquisite tale of Human Dignity.. and how it can be shared.
In photographs from just a few short years ago, he is all smoky, dark and lean, with smoldering blue/green eyes, sinewy muscles like snaking ropes coiling around down his arms and the length of his tanned legs.
He tells me of his life as a tennis pro, of hunting and fishing in Alaska, of fortunes won with his brilliant business mind and daring entrepreneurial spirit, of expeditions and tattoos, travel and dashing adventure.
...
and
He speaks of female companions, skating delicately across the surface of the subject as if it were of no consequence at all. This attempt at subtlety practically shouts at me what I know to be true. I'm not sure if he's attempting to spare my feminine nature out of some kind of chivalry, or to conceal motivations that still animate his actions.
I am certain with all of my being that he was a man that most women would drop everything to be near, even just for a short while. He dripped with a raw male beauty, an on-top-of-the-world, devil-may-care attitude, a lifestyle fueled by success, a mind as quick as a whip.
Even now, when he talks, he calls me “Baby,” in a lazy, sexy, slow way, rolling it around on his tongue with a silky smooth tone that reminds me of cigars and cedar, chocolate with cinnamon, and makes me feel suddenly weak in the knees. He winks, watching my emotions flicker across my face like they always do; I'm a heart-on-my-sleeve type of woman. He knows the effect he has on me, which pleases him, and the corner of his mouth twitches up suggestively.
And there, looking into his eyes, I realize that the very life essence of this man is so powerful that it temporarily caused me to forget that his gorgeous, strong body is now really frail and small and stooped; that his lovely long, slender fingers can no longer grasp anything, not even to feed his own mouth; that his tall, magnificent frame cannot leave the couch where he sits until I walk over and plant my feet as hard as I can, letting him grip my shoulders to hoist himself up, afraid I might drop him, glad I've been working out lately. I forget that his eyes, that crackle and twinkle with fire and look at me as if he wants to take a bite out of me, are now blind enough that he cannot drive or read, and will soon be completely dim.
Do you think you have the picture now? Probably not though.
More below the SQUIGGLE
... for now she can
see our reflection in the long hall mirror, me in a beautiful dress and high heels, my hair a bright mane shining down my back, and him struggling to hold my arm, shaking uncontrollably, bent and gnarled, still somehow incredibly handsome.
I know, in that moment, that I may be the last woman to be out anywhere with him, the last one to hear “Baby” from his lips.
And the stares and glances of all the patrons, the surreptitious sideways looks at me, the “What in the world is she doing with him?” questioning glances are all the tiniest speck of a price to pay to let him have one more moment as the dashingly beautiful man he remains within his spirit, the space inside, untouched by disease.
So Now Consider:
that all of us have something in our lives that could distract from the beauty of our true nature, of the very core of who we are, if we were to let it.
Perhaps it's a disease, a condition, the loss of our youthful vitality. What of grief, disappointments and emotional wounds? Perhaps we've made a terrible mistake, and don't know how to recover, how to believe ourselves worthy again.
These external diminishments are inevitable in life. But the brave and the true, though facing the inescapable truth of something like a debilitating illness, can still find a way to keep the vision of the warrior within, to remember the passion and zeal to continue to live and breathe the way they did before the worst had happened.
....and in the end:
I think I ... may have had the great privilege and honor of being a final mirror to his heart that night. Not the one yielding the image of a bent and broken man, as the looking glass in the hallway revealed, nor the reflection of the horrified glances of the patrons there. But through my eyes the eyes of a woman who knows her own scars, and still believes that she's got something glorious within. ...We all do.
Sharyn Fields is a Chico resident and columnist for North State Voices, which appears each Thursday. She can be reached at sunflower4600@gmail.com.
...and for SHARING, here is the link to the pice