A Story of Recklessness

Every now and then, I have need of a visit to the hospital to shore up from this crazy lupus that challenges me. In the course of my many visits, word got out that I was a jazz-singing, foul-mouthed pastor of a Christian church. And before I could snap, I had a whole new congregation made up of the sick, the dying, the pissed off, the too-old-to-care and the staff who cares for them.

It was almost six weeks ago that I was pulled aside by a nurse. "Paul has asked to meet you. He just wants to say hi, I think. You smiled at him in the hallway the other day and he's not talked about anything else since." So she led me to room 1317 and pushed open the heavy hospital door slowly, using her body to move it quietly and reverently like a temple door. That should've been the first clue something magical was about to happen.

Paul was reclining half upright on the bed with his eyes closed, a well-built man with a head full of curly white hair. An open book rested pages down against his chest. He had the worn, creased look of a dying man. And he is. Paul has brain cancer.

One gentle touch on the shoulder and he opened his eyes and stared at me for what turned into an uncomfortable amount of time. He finally spoke with a voice that had the sparkle of what must have once been youthful vigor. He wanted to meet me, he said, because when he saw me in the hallway that day, he was sure that he'd seen a ghost. Or that the cancer had finally hit that part of his brain that kept him rooted in reality.

"A good ghost?" I asked.

"The ghost of a love I was too cowardly to embrace." He smiled at me almost apologetically.

Paul and I became friends on the spot, right there, no more questions asked.

Her name was Julia and she was a gypsy of a woman. Statuesque, passionate, intelligent, fierce. And beautiful--with a mane of red hair that would shame the sun. She was an artist and a dancer. They'd met in the fifties shortly after he returned from the war through a mutual friend. The connection was evident from the beginning, full of fire and aliveness; but he always shied away from letting himself imagine a future where Julia had some role to play in his life. Whatever was going on between them didn't fit into the conventional box he'd been told was right, safe, good, responsible. He was moving away for work within the year and that would be that. So three seasons worth of magical walks through the park, some beautiful nights together with long conversations that lasted into the small hours of the morning, and countless "accidental" meetings just to get a glimpse of her and then he left. Moved to Chicago, lived the responsible (i.e. expected) life and married his first wife, a kind woman he admits he loved but wasn't in love with. And every single day he thought of Julia. He told me I remind him of her -- the way I walked, the way I dressed, the way I laughed in the hallway. I told him we'd overlook the stark difference in the beautiful, statuesque part and my mane comes via unnatural means, but I'd take the compliment.

To sit with him, even just for a little while every other week and be the hologram of a woman (nay, a love) for whom he grieves the loss is one of the great joys of my life these days. I have enough of Julia's spirit that Paul feels some kind of absolution in telling me all of the things he never told her. This, no doubt, is some kind of divine appointment to let him prepare for death and to teach me how to live.

Paul has given me permission to say something out loud to myself: life is too short to not be reckless for the things that matter. Be reckless about love, about compassion, about beauty, about opposing injustice, about the unexplainable miracle of a kindred spirit. This is such a cliche in some ways that I can't even read my own words without seeing them on a bumper sticker or some stupid poster with a kitten clinging to tree branch.

But I get it.

Recklessness is frowned on in our culture. At least, where it would count. We'll be reckless with sex, money, our bodies, our earth...but not with our time, our passion, our own innate divine nature.

Most days I kind of suck at it, actually. Recklessness, I mean. I like the notes on the page way better than I like improvising. Do I know what makes up an E7#11 chord? You bet, but I'd rather see exactly how Bill Evans plays it and go with that. His way must be the right way. Or at least better. Despite all my gypsy sensibilities, a semi-predictable outcome is still the "responsible" way. And let's face it, I don't want to look like a fool and I bet you don't either.

I'm chucking that notion from here on out. It's no coincidence that the greatest commandment is love or that my greatest hero lived a life so reckless and so passionate, they killed him for it. (Not the desired outcome I'm hoping for, by the way.)

So reckless I shall be...with my note choices, with my inspiration, with my love.

I asked Paul if he would have found a way to love Julia even if it would've required that they be foolishly creative in trying to make it work, even if it wasn't a sure thing. He just looked past me the way that memories do and smiled that Don Draper smile. "Oh doll, every man should be a fool for a love like that; a fool forgets that there's anything to do but live."

Preach it, Apostle Paul.

P.S. I love you, P. XOXO