The Moment It Hit Me
“When an old person dies, a library burns to the ground.”~African Proverb
Throughout much of my existence, I viewed the process of aging primarily through the lens of physical decline—graying hair, diminishing recall, and reduced mobility. However, my experience caring for my 96-year-old mother has profoundly altered this perspective. I have come to recognize a far more profound and heartbreaking reality: the gradual disappearance of invaluable wisdom within a society that reveres novelty, marginalizes tradition, and races ahead without appreciating the treasures it discards.
In our contemporary world, we exalt youthfulness and cutting-edge advancements—the latest gadgets, fleeting fashions, and fresh concepts. The term “old” has regrettably been equated with obsolescence. As this accumulated wisdom fades from view, we cease posing the essential inquiries and forfeit the counsel from individuals who have navigated the complete spectrum of human existence.
One particular afternoon, while my mother recounted a tale about her own father, a startling realization struck me: failing to be completely present with her in these moments means I will not merely lose her physical presence. I will also forfeit the opportunity to inherit and perpetuate her insights—and, crucially, to gain a deeper understanding of my own identity.
The Moment It Hit Me
The room was enveloped in the warm, golden glow of late-afternoon sunlight. My mother was seated opposite me, vividly describing her early years—the ration coupons used during wartime, the thrill of hearing music broadcast for the first time on a radio.
Suddenly, she halted midway through her narrative. A prolonged silence ensued. My usual sense of urgency surfaced—that instinctive pull to complete her sentence, to press forward, to return to my endless list of tasks.
Yet on this occasion, I chose to remain still.
I endured the quiet and sensed a transformation occur. That interval of silence was not vacant; it brimmed with her determination, her inherent grace, her effort to bridge decades and retrieve a memory of true significance. By interrupting her, I risked obliterating not only her recollection but also her fundamental right to reclaim it.
In that instant, it became clear that true listening transcends mere courtesy. It serves as an act of safeguarding—preserving her personal history, the bond we share, and my own ability to maintain presence amid life’s most challenging circumstances.
What I Learned About Decline
Providing care for an elderly loved one extends beyond ensuring their safety, nourishment, or medication adherence. It involves actively observing as their universe gradually contracts.
This act of bearing witness demands engagement. It requires attentiveness to nuanced changes in their voice, the spark in their gaze when a familiar melody stirs recognition, and the quiet satisfaction they derive from recounting a unique story that no one else on earth can share.
Through this journey, I have discovered that true dignity does not demand perpetual vigor. Rather, it lies in being acknowledged and cherished right up to one’s final days. This is a gift we hold the power to bestow upon one another, provided we commit to decelerating our pace.
The Cost of a Culture That Looks Away
Our fast-paced society finds it simpler to turn our gaze from the realities of aging, deterioration, and mortality. We glorify the vibrancy of youth while dreading the inevitability of age. Being “old” is often concealed, corrected, or outright disregarded.
Nevertheless, each instance we divert our attention—even if only on an emotional level—we surrender something utterly unique. We forfeit not just their personal narratives but also the vital preparation for our own inevitable path ahead.
These caregiving encounters have emerged as among the most vibrant and meaningful periods in my life. They have instilled in me profound patience, gentle compassion, and a depth of mindfulness that no digital application, written volume, or efficiency technique could ever impart.
Moreover, they serve as a poignant reminder that someday, I too will grapple for words, yearning for another’s patience to allow me the space to retrieve them.
A Gentle Practice
We possess the ability to counteract this frenzy and revive the lost art of attentive listening. Consider implementing this straightforward approach:
- Ask one question. Keep it simple, such as: “What were Sundays like for you at age ten?”
- Wait. Allow the silence to unfold naturally. Give them time to unearth the memory.
- Preserve it. Jot it down or make a recording—not solely for posterity, but to nurture your own soul. Rescuing even a single memory safeguards a portion of that irreplaceable library.
Lessons I Carry Forward
My shared moments with my mother have illuminated that genuine love is gauged not through grand, theatrical actions but via steadfast commitment—continually appearing, regardless of inconvenience or emotional toll.
It has revealed that listening is far from passive; it constitutes a profound act of respect, a declaration of: “You remain significant. Your voice retains its importance.”
Furthermore, it has compelled me to resist a societal tendency to regard accumulated wisdom as expendable. Our elders do not impede progress; they safeguard the roadmap of our collective history, ensuring we do not stray from our course.
Thus, I opt to linger, to heed, to venerate what is gradually diminishing rather than hastening by. For one day, I will be the one hesitating mid-thought, pursuing a lost memory—and I will cherish the hope that someone remains patient enough to grant me the time to rediscover it.
