Those Who Are Aware

Some years ago, we obtained a pretty little house plant with dark green, white-speckled leaves. The plant is known as a scindapsus pictus, or “argyraeus.” Not long after my wife installed it on the baker’s rack in the kitchen, it began to climb the wall behind the rack. We were utterly charmed by the little suckers the plant used to attach itself, and by what a living presence it was, even sitting among some other, more dramatically-leaved plants. Each tiny, pale shoot of jade at the end of the vine was cause for exclamation.

Several weeks ago, while cleaning around the baker’s rack, I managed to tear the vine away from its pot. I was horrified, and consulted Mrs. Orr on what to do. She put the raw end of the vine in a small jar of water with some plant food, and we left it alone. Though the vine is still technically alive, the leaves that were once flat against the wall are now somewhat curled under, and they feel drier and less healthy to the touch. It grieves me that I ruined a lovely plant and probably killed a part of it. We haven’t given up on it yet, though. I have in my personal library a book that has been hooted down as “pseudoscience,” sneered at by the same sorts who give full credence to anything that comes out of Anthony Fauci’s mouth, but it is a book that is dear to me, titled The Secret Life of Plants. The descriptions of plants’ ability to sense, to react, to feel are very persuasive and made a big impression on me from the time my late and beloved friend Roger gave it to me. So I am unwilling to abandon this frail little tendril of green life.

Yesterday I saw a lady, perhaps in her mid-forties, who was afflicted with Down’s Syndrome. She was attempting to navigate through the doors of a building and seemed frustrated by her inability to manipulate the door handle. She was accompanied by a woman whom I inferred to be a family member. This woman spoke to the handicapped lady in a brusque fashion, rude and impatient. At one point, the afflicted lady dropped her catheter bag, which was full of urine, onto the floor. The woman with her bent and snatched it up, snarling, “Don’t throw your bag on the ground! It’ll get dirty, or you’ll step on it!”

As I passed them, I noted the angry flush on the woman’s face, and then I peered into the struggling lady’s face. She met my eyes with that curious old & wise/young & naive expression that many burdened with Down’s Syndrome seem to wear. She held my gaze for just a moment, then dropped her eyes to the ground and shuffled through the door, which her impatient companion was holding open.

All through the rest of the day, I thought of the lady, wondering about her background, her family life, her home. More than these things, I wondered about her thoughts, her interior world, her fears, her joys — and pray Christ that she has some joys, some things to lighten her burden in this harsh life.

I believe she is more aware and more thoughtful and more complex than most would be willing to believe. I cannot fathom why the living God would touch one of His with such an affliction, but I am told that He has His reasons and purposes. I pray that when this life is over, her entrance into Paradise will be much richer and fuller than that of the healthy, quick-witted and sharp-tongued among us. May she leap and laugh someday, and may the small joys she has here be multiplied infinitely.

My Lord, this is a worrisome life sometimes.

~ S.K. Orr