The luminaries among us

A community lifting others up continues to bring light

What a rollercoaster these past two years have been.

Flung around sharp bends and suddenly pitched downwards, it feels like we’ve been on a collision course on so many levels. We’ve tried to endure the toll of Covid 19 variants, the strain of loneliness, the negative impacts on children and elders particularly, and antagonism over restrictions and vaccine rollouts. It’s been an unsettling ride.

If that weren’t enough, the pandemic has also aggravated the grief some of us were already trying to process, and added agonizing new losses. 

Too many people were unable to accompany a loved one during her last days. Too many visits were postponed with a grandchild or parents. Weddings and even memorial services got pushed back or canceled. We have unfinished stories that may never be told.

The sense that our lives will never be complete again—following the loss of a child, sibling, parent, or partner—has been brought to the fore with crippling force. A gray landscape not unlike the twists and turns of the weather entering March.

We may feel robbed. And this can be debilitating, with so much spinning out of control.

We’re done. Beyond fatigued. Understandably wanting—or demanding—a return to normal.

Yet surely light is returning to clear away the relative darkness. It’s not just the season, although each day of a slightly-higher arcing sun surely helps. For me, an inspiration, or guiding force, if you will, during these past two years has been a greater appreciation of being with supportive people. Being part of a community that lifts each other up—those who get what you are going through—is what I consider to be an unspeakable gift. (A gift freely given, one that we never would have chosen to need.)

Hopefully each of us know people who bring light into the world. That may sound trite to some, but I don’t mean it casually. For those of us connected to Hope Floats or invested in another service community, staying grounded to help others cope with crises that no one deserves, that light means everything. 

And there are luminaries among us.  

They inspire you. Perhaps they’re the ones who keep showing up, despite the relative distance or hardship getting somewhere. Perhaps they’ve stayed on the front lines in hospitals or clinics or nursing homes, as contractors and teachers and first responders, or working at Stop N’ Shop.

A luminary reminds us that when times are tough, this is exactly when we must rise to the occasion.

What I admire most about a luminary, as a notable person who gives without taking, is that he reminds us that when times are tough, this is exactly when we must rise to the occasion. We can step outside of our narrow lanes and routines. Even in a world threatening to consume us in darkness (see Ukraine, the rising autocrats here and abroad, or fill in your blank) we have an endless capacity to regenerate community right where we live. 

Of course, a luminary most likely is no saint. But his or her selflessness or ability to transcend painful experiences in kind of an outward flow reaching others is no less admirable—and so needed today. 

A luminary may be a good listener, who you feel present and not scanning a screen when you connect.  

A luminary may be the one accompanying you on a forsaken road while others have walked on.   

A luminary may be the glue of your family—in my case, my later mother, who quietly urged reconciliation when it was needed, or reminded us to become our better selves.

A luminary may be the voice telling you want you do not want to hear, but in a way that doesn’t cut you down.

We need those who help light the way forward.

A luminary may also be someone you know who makes a profound difference in others’ lives, prolific in whatever field or profession they are in. My family is fortunate to be connected to at least one—a caring oncologist and researcher at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute who helps direct a team finding new treatments for ovarian cancer. 

Though perhaps most luminaries we know go at it more under the radar. I count our support group  facilitators at Hope Floats, our dedicated counselors, and other volunteers among them. 

We all can use more light, and returning warmth. We know it will eventually come in the physical sense. With other events poised to jolt us on yet another white-knuckle ride, we may need the bonds of community even more.

And those who light the way forward.

Finally, some lines from George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun” have been playing in my ears recently.  Somehow speaking again to this time, emblematic in their full figurative sense: 

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear…