Sacred Stories
Ever since my husband told me that he heard astrophysicist Neil DeGrasse Tyson describe human beings as nothing more than stardust, I have been captivated and honestly thrilled by that idea. To know that all we are — and all we revert back to — is the substance of the universe, feels incredibly liberating. It’s also hugely humbling. What a waste for humans to climb over other humans, to strive for some kind of human-endorsed idea of greatness, when we are practically nothing. We matter in the merest way.
If we are just stardust, then what about or within us is noteworthy, what is unique? The only thing each of us has, I think, that distinguishes from all the bits of stardust around and among is, is our stories. What do we say about ourselves? About our origins, our dreams, our ancestors, our descendants? What do we know about our inner lives, and the inner lives and stories of others in our little human-verses?
This has all bubbled up in light of a recent overnight stay I had with my son at a local hospital. He was admitted so he could be monitored to try to sort out why the frequency of his seizures seems to have increased dramatically in recent months. We didn’t in the end find a reason, but we did find an excuse to try to increase his meds again, to see if that interrupts the seizure frequency. Time will tell.
During our stay, I met a number of staff people, nurses mostly. Hidden behind masks, I could not see their full faces, but their voices and affects were unique. First there was Amy, who sounded quite young. She appeared to be Asian, with the lovely straight black hair common to Asians. She was very kind and patient with my son, though I was unsure if she knew he was autistic, given how she spoke to him, so I quietly told her that he was. To which my son, with his dog-like hearing responded, “I’m not autistic.”
To find a vein for his IV, if needed, Amy called upon a colleague, Erica. Also masked, I could discern little about Erica beyond her kindness as well. In fact, she made a point of telling me that she has a sister who is like my son. “How old is she?” I asked. “She’s three. No wait, five. My daughter is three; my sister is five.” In there was an interesting story to be sure, but not one it was my business to probe. Without question more stardust though.
In the later evening hours, I met Chinasa, also masked, but wearing large square black eyeglasses, which stood out prominently against her dark brown skin. She took extra time to try to explain to my son why he needed to stay over in the hospital, and to try to get him to explain to her why he was feeling so frustrated and upset about that. I took her to be about twenty years older than Amy and Erica, but still quite youthful.
Chinasa returned some time during the night to ask after me. “How are you doing?” “Oh, I’m ok,” I told her, though my reclining chair didn’t make for much of a bed, and my vigilance about trying not to fall too much asleep in case my son seized or otherwise needed me made for a very un-restful night.
Chinasa and I talked, mother to mother. I’m not sure how we got into the weeds of our respective parenting, but she complimented mine. “You’ve done a good job, mom.” “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve made lots of mistakes, but I’ve tried to impart what I know to be true, and to focus on what I know matters above all — raising good humans.” Chinasa then shared a story about her son, in which he asked why she hadn’t given him any advice about success. “Everyone defines success differently. I want you to live with respect, and to feel good about what’s behind you, what you’ve left once you’ve passed by.” “What’s your son’s name, Chinasa?” “Zariel.” “Ah, I have a daughter named Ariel.” “They’re almost the same.” “Where are you from, originally?” “Nigeria. I hope to take my son there this year. He doesn’t seem all that interested right now, though.” “Well, he’s only twenty-one and his brain isn’t even fully formed yet, so maybe his interest will grow as he matures.”
My son heard ‘Africa’ and piped up with, “African imports are brought from Africa.” “Where in Africa? Do you know any countries there?” “Ghana.” “Any others?” “Ethiopia. Egypt. Sudan.” That last one first came out sounding like ‘Sweden,’ but was quickly corrected.
As I talked more with Chinasa about my kids and her son, the tears came. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was just so tired that any topic suffused with human content and connection would leave me crying. “I hope those are tears of joy,” Chinasa offered. I couldn’t honestly say. Probably more of gratitude — to her, really. She took the time to check in on me, and I found that our stardust had much in common in how we mother our children, and what we hope for and expect of them in how they carry themselves out in the world. And above all, in what we value about them, and what we think is hardly worth a passing glance.
I spend crazy amounts of time alone and in my own head. Once my husband is off to work and my son to his programs, it’s me and the dogs. But I love people. Truly, I do. Not the heinous bits of poisoned stardust, but the beautiful lights, with their complicated, interesting, and sometimes even heartbreaking stories. I am quick to take an interest in other people, and eager to learn about who they are, why they are, how they think, and what matters to them.
Following so closely after the Yizkor memorial service of Yom Kippur, I felt a kind of organic link to the late night stories Chinasa and I shared in the hospital. After all, when we are again invisible bits in the universe, our lives will only matter still in the stories others tell about us, in the pieces of us that linger around them, that live within them, and that look back at us from the faces of our children and theirs.
