Rusty

Tribute to a friend who has become a piece of home

I like to write about beautiful things. To describe them so that their presence seeps a little deeper into my awareness through attention.

That is why I write about people like Rusty. Because I want the reality of her presence, her grace, her assuming-the-best, her independence, her wisdom, all to be a little more engraved on the person of who I am.

Rusty and my relationship is built upon life updates, snacks, and poetry exchange (mainly her sharing top selections and being generous enough to listen to whatever I have most recently written, encouraging me: “Keep writing Pie”). We sit at the little table in her yellow kitchen, a bowl of fruit between us. Another day in the dining room with light streaming in through the windows, table set with a spread of my eclectic offerings: carrots, diet Sprite, trail mix, and (in a moment of weakness) some now-unfortunately-very-cold Safeway chicken nuggets (she acts as though this selection is exactly what she has been craving).

We chat about work and about family, about death and dying and bodies, and about wonder and awe and delight. Rusty is someone who has a lot of room for people. By that I mean she has room for where they are at in the present moment of their lives, wherever and however that is.

With Rusty there is safety to feel the thought as you think it, before you know yet where it will go. And in this way, you come to know it yourself in a different way, to hold your own reality within a slightly softer welcome.

The legend herself :)

I grew up living with grandparents, so intergenerational friendships have always felt familiar. At various points in my life the majority of my friends have been over the age of 70 or under the age of 5 (chronological peers seem to persist as the social strata of greatest mystery ;)). Even in the midst of this familiarity, time with someone like Rusty never fails to spark reorientation or shifts in perspective.

When I am with her, it feels a bit like I get to slip out of time. It doesn’t race by as in my typical days, but it instead extends and folds. There is room to breathe, room to speak slowly, time to thumb through the book looking for which next lines we want to read aloud.

I introduce her to new brands of dark chocolate. She introduces me to just the right poetic selection to slow down enough to be present at all, to stop moving through a moment to actually spend a bit of time within it. We pause at the description of a scene or Welwood’s use of paradox, laugh at Doyle’s poem about a first kiss, and chat about Oliver or Levertov as if we had spoken with them earlier that morning. I know Rusty doesn’t feel like she has endless time in her days. In her 90s, she is typically fully occupied: reading, connecting with friends, learning, and writing letters among other tasks.

But in some ways there is still a different pace, or maybe it isn’t so much a different pace as a different energy that runs through whichever pace.

As I sit with Rusty and wonder at this, there seems an irony in the fact that I, who (in theory) may have much time ahead, tend to feel as though I never have enough. And Rusty, who (in theory) may have fewer years, seems to live without a vestige of hurry.

I am realizing that maybe this difference is not about how much there is to do, but because of the deep presence that Rusty chooses to do any of these things with.

I want to live more in this way, to not move on to the next thing before the former is complete. To practice protecting the important instead of bowing to the urgent.

First day we met! Quality bookshelves correlate pretty well with great friends . . .

Rusty and I talk about singleness, dating, and the challenges but also gifts within both. She never married or had biological kids, but every time I visit I get to look at her fridge; it is hard to see because it is buried under pictures and art work, from dozens and dozens (quite literally) of godchildren, family, and prior students. It is a tapestry and testament to the relational depth and breadth she has created as a “single” woman in the world. If you look at her fridge, you’d be hard-pressed to not rethink the notion of “singleness” at all.

There are many more things I could say, but on Rusty’s 94th birthday today, I’ll close by sending “virtual cheers” to the woman who has shown me (and so many) great capaciousness, great patience, and great love. Who has chosen to generously witness and stay with me in moments of joy as well as in moments of frustration, hurt, or unknowing. And to share honestly about what this stage in her own life feels like and means.

I have only known Rusty for two years. I know others who have known her decades upon decades and seen her weekly over that course of time. I realize I know a fraction of a sliver of who this woman is. And yet sometimes it only takes a fraction of a sliver, to take in something or someone and know they are beautiful.

To understand and to feel them, radiant with the essence of a life well, well lived. Shimmering with the wisdom that, “ . . . no effort earns that all-surrounding grace” (Levertov).