Nikky Found

After nearly two weeks of not having seen Nikky, I began to think I might not see her again. After all, her family had no real reason to let me know her whereabouts. I tried to breath through my feelings of loss, and think back, instead, about how much I have learned from knowing her. But tonight, Nikky's daughter-in-law, Rita, called to let me know that Nikky is in a new residence, not far from where I live, where she receives 24 hour care. I can't wait to see her!

Where's Nikky?

I visited Nikky a few times in the hospital during the week she was there. Each time, she was more and more herself. The last time I was there, two of her granddaughters were there too. To them, she was not herself at all, and probably has not been for quite some time. To me, she was my angel, my "paysan," again.

The last time I went, she had just been discharged, and I don't know where she is now. She did not return to Walpan, and I have not heard from the director there, or her family. It is possible that I will never see her again. And why should I? I am not family, or even a friend of the family. I am just someone who found an angel, and will always have her with me.

Gains and Losses

I have seen Nikki three times since my trip to Tulum. Each time, she was less present than the time before. She hasn't walked since before Christmas. She has been taking her meals in bed or in her chair, rarely leaving her room. When I visited on Friday, she seemed only an echo of herself -- barely acknowledging me, not responding to any of the usual songs or conversation that would ordinarily engage her. She was weak and disoriented, so much so that I went downstairs to tell Nick that I was concerned about her.

So I wasn't surprised to find out today that she had been taken to the hospital last night. Samy and I visited Walpan for Easter, and after spending time with Peggy and Julia, I went to Mountainside Hospital. Nikki's son Frankie was there. It was nice to put a face to the person I had heard so many stories about. And Nikki was much better. She had become dehydrated and the i.v. fluids were really helping. Still, she was so small and seemingly lost in her bed, which was vibrating to keep her from getting bed sores.

I wondered what Frankie made of me, this crazy woman who has become so attached to his mother -- a stranger she found wandering on Bloomfield Avenue. To me, meeting Nikki has been a great gift and a blessing. Having met her at the twilight of her life, when Alzheimer's has already mastered her mind, I have never had any expectations of her. For her son, watching his mother's memory slip away has been heartbreaking. The loss of recognition is tragic and and understandably devastating. It seems so unfair that when I look at Nikki, I see only what she has given me. But her son, who is so devoted to her, sees an unbearably cruel loss.

Thoughts of Nikky

I find my thoughts turning to Nikky again and again. Having met her in the week after last year’s retreat, my thoughts about my experiences with her became intertwined with my thoughts about what I learned and experienced. I am sadly aware of how little I’ve seen of her in the past few months. The last two times I visited, she wouldn’t get up and leave her room, shaking her head no, no matter how hard I cajoled her. “I’m not feeling so good,” she would say. I know how dangerous it is for her to become bed ridden, half awake, half asleep, in the fuzzy haze of her memories. And yet, she was happy to see me, greeting me with a warm “oh hello,” the way you greet someone who clearly knows you, but who you can’t place. She is quick to “remember” me, when I remind her that I found her when she was lost. “Oh yeah, we were good friends, remember?” Her eyes look at me from a younger time, recalling that we went to school together, and I was her good friend, her “paysan,” who knows her from the old neighborhood.

On Christmas Eve last year, Mariel, Samy and I went to bring presents to Peggy, Richard and Nikky. Wilton has since passed; and Billy and Willy have moved to another home with more supervision. I wonder whether their romance is intact. Peggy, Richard, the girls and I sit in the center hall. They are pleased to open their gifts. Samy drapes the shawl we bought around Peggy’s shoulders, and she says she feels like a queen. I go in to see Nikky, who is lying in bed awake. She resists my efforts to bring her into the hall, but lets me prop her up in bed. Samy comes in to see her, and sings her a little holiday song, that makes Nicky smile. Mariel comes in too, and Nikky admires her, saying she is a beautiful girl, and Nikky can tell she’s a smart one too. We sing our songs together – “Let Me Call you Sweetheart,” and “You Are My Sunshine,” Nikky bobbing her head and searching for the key. Mariel goes to the hallway to get Nikky’s present, and when she comes back, Nikky asks “who is this beautiful girl.” I say she is my oldest daughter, and Nicky exclaims, “Oh, she’s a beautiful girl, and I can tell she’s a smart one too.” Samy looks at me, and wisely does not that Nicky had just met her and is saying the same thing. Instead, she gives Nicky a hug – and I am proud of my daughters, my angels, bringing these people joy, love, and a feeling that their lives matter.

Opening Portals

When you watch a movie, there are the main characters, secondary and minor characters, and extras. It is much the same in life. We are the main characters in our lives; we have secondary and minor characters -- people who add color and flavor to our lives but don't really affect the action -- and extras -- the people who are in the background, entering and exiting, moving in and out of our scenes. We all perceive ourselves as the stars of our own particular sit-coms, and rarely give a thought to the fact that, at the same time, we are merely extras in someone else's story.

Sometimes, a window opens in the lives of one of our "extras," and we realize how much more there is to the lives of people we barely notice. One night, when I visited Walpan at dinner time, I began reading from "Stuart Little" to Nikki, Bruno, Richard and Joe. This is an interesting table to read to, as Nikki and Bruno only hear out of their left ears (and not that well at that), making sitting between them impossible. Just when I got to the part where Stuart lowers himself down the drain to find Mrs. Little's earring, Bruno, who might have thought that I had finished reading because perhaps he didn't hear me at all, mentioned that he used to know E.B. White. "I used to visit him, you know, and he would occasionally read me his poetry." "I didn't know he was a poet," I said. "Wasn't he though? Or was that the other chap with an "E" for a first name," asked Bruno. "Are you thinking of e e cummings?" I suggested. "Oh yes, that's the chap." Bruno added, "and you know who else is an amazing poet? Barbara, the cook." "e e cummings had a cook who was a poet?" I asked. "No my dear, the cook here," said Bruno, gesturing at the lady serving the food.

I had only met Barbara in passing. Usually, Olga served the food in the dining hall, but she left for Croatia at the end of June. Barbara, the cook, was indeeed in the dining room serving the food. Barbara is a beautiful, big boned, chocolate complexioned woman who has an accent that is a musical blend of England and the West Indies. After dinner, I told her that Bruno had mentioned that she is a poet. I asked her if I could read her poetry.

"I have hundreds of poems at home," Barbara said. "The words just come to me, and I have to write them down." Barbara eagerly brought up some loose papers that were in a ziploc bag. There were perhaps 25 poems in that bag, and they were all remarkable. They were amazingly evocative, with unexpected rhymes and vivid images. Julia had not come into dinner -- another fall -- and so I brought her dessert in to her and asked her if she would like to hear the poems. I read 6 or 7 out loud to her. "I will never look at Barbara the same way again," she said. "I always thought of her as just a cook, and never thought that she might have any other life beyond this place. But really, she is an artist, isn't she." I agreed.

If you stop to look at all the "extras" in your life: the people you pass who are in a hurry to make their train; or are impatiently waiting on the supermarket check out line; or laboring in your neighbor's yard, consider that they might have lives rich with details and color that you never imagine. One of them might be newly in love, or have a talent so far removed from the type of work they do that you would never imagine it. And it's useful to stop and imagine it. To really look. Because to them, you might just be "an extra" too.

Blah Blah Blah

Ruth and Grace have told me from time to time about Nikky's "episodes." They've described how she sometimes comes into the dining room and starts yelling at everyone and telling them to get out. The Nikky I know is sweet and loving, so I hadn't been able to imagine this at all.

The other day, I had a glimpse of "bizarro Nikky." When I knocked on the door to her room, she didn't answer, and yet I could hear her talking. I thought she was talking to the television, because she was saying things like "Shut up; you loud ape. You're making me deaf." I went in. She turned to me. No recognition. "Blah, blah, blah..." she yelled at me, "that's all you ever say ... blah blah blah...I can't hear you!" She put her hands over her ears. "Blah blah blah... you creep. I can't hear a word you say. I'm not listening." She close her eyes tight, hands over her ears, like a child.

I took her shoulders. "Nikky, it's me, Jessie... your paysan... your friend." She tried to shake me off, but then her body softened. She took her hands off her ears and opened her eyes. "Oh, hello," she said, smiling sweetly. "Are you o.k.," I asked? "Oh yes... and how are you?" she asked. "Fine," I said. Bizarro Nikky was gone. "I love you so much. You're so good to me," she said. "They come as good as you ... but no better. God bless you, God bless you." And we walked out into our visit.

Leaving Love

Last week, I had to take medication for a sinus infection. I'd been battling it for 4 days when I broke down on Tuesday and called my doctor for antibiotics. He prescribed a "Z-pac," with the instructions to take two pills the first day and one a day for the next 3 days. I did as instructed, and also used a nasal inhaler/antihistamine to try to clear my nose.

About an hour later, I started to feel disoriented and weak in my body. It was about 7:30 PM, and Freddie had already left for work. I called him and asked him to come home, because I felt like I would pass out if I got up to try to put Samy to bed. Luckily, he hadn't gotten on the highway, so it wasn't a big deal for him to turn around.

I went to bed, but couldn't fall asleep. I had the very real, very immediate feeling that I was leaving my body. After Freddie tucked Samy in, I asked him to lie down with me. "I feel like I'm leaving," I told him. "Where are you going," he asked? "I feel like I'm leaving my body," I said. "What are you talking about," he wondered? I repeated it. "You're having a reaction to the medication," he said. But I was so convinced. I thought about Mariel and Samy. "Mariel knows how much I love her," I sobbed to Freddie, "but you have to remind Samy. She's so young. And you know how much I love you. But you have to promise me that you'll go to Walpan and let them know what happened. I don't want them to think I stopped caring."

Freddie humored me. And he tried to make me laugh. "You can't die," he said. "We have to start lifting weights together. And you promised to take me sky-diving." But I was devastated to think I wouldn't get to say goodbye to Nikky, Richard, Julia, and the other residents of Walpan. "Promise me you'll make sure everyone knows how much I love them. Promise me you'll let them know that I didn't stop caring." "I promise," he said.

Mariel came home, and Freddie went downstairs to check in with her. I found a piece of paper and wrote down, "Please tell everyone how much I love them."

When I woke up in the morning, I was so surprised to still be here! Wow. Hallucinating on medication is a powerful thing. I saw the note next to my bed and for a moment, did not remember writing it. Freddie had written on the bottom, "Everyone knows how much you love them every day."

It feels good that I wasn't scared of leaving. But I'm glad to stay. I'm glad to still have time to give love. It's much sweeter than leaving love.

Sing a Song

Nikky loves to sing. We started with "You Are My Sunshine," and "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," but we recently branched out into the Great American Songbook.

It started one day when we were sitting out on the front porch. I had finished reading two chapters of "The Phantom Tollbooth," and we were sitting quietly enjoying the breeze. Ruth and Richard came out and sat down. Ruth was reminiscing about her sister, and remembering how the two of them would write down the words to popular songs and take them on car rides: songs like "Where or When," "There's A Small Hotel," "My Romance," and the like.

I closed my eyes, leaned my head on Nikky's shoulder, and started to sing: "It seems we stood and talked like this, before..." Ruth's eyes closed and she began to hum along. Nikky joined in -- the melody seemed to trigger something in her memory, and she looked at me, her eyes clear and sharp and brimming with tears: "They may come as good as you," she says, squeezing my arm, "but they don't come no better."

We sing through as many songs as I know, with Ruth filling in the words that I forget. "You are so good to me. You make me happy. God love you. You're my friend, my best friend," Nikky says, over and over. "God love you."

Nothing Compares

Julia is in the hospital. The last time I visited Nikky, Olga told me that an ambulance had come for Julia at 4 AM. Olga didn't know exactly why.

I visited Julia on Friday. I wasn't sure of her last name, but patient services helped me figure it out, and Samy and I went up to see her. Julia looked very small in her bed. She has a private room. "It's lonely, she said. "Private rooms aren't all they are cracked up to be. But my grandson wants me to have the best." She looked like she had lost weight. "Well, who wouldn't shrink away to nothing with what I'm getting here," she said, gesturing to her dinner which was still on the tray over her bed. "All liquids." Her diagnosis is gastrointestinal distress, "which means they really don't know what on earth is wrong with me."

Julia was so happy that we visited. Samy drew her some pictures, and Julia told me how moved she was by all of the concern the other residents at Walpan had expressed about her. "When Michael went there yesterday to get some of my things, he said everyone asked about me and sent their good wishes. Imagine that. It's so nice to know that people are thinking about me."

Michael came up from the cafeteria, and was surprised to see me there. I wonder if he thinks it's strange that I would take such an interest in Nikky and Julia. I guess it is out of the ordinary, but I really do feel so privileged to know these remarkable people.

I would have liked to visit Julia on Saturday or Sunday, but I've had a sinus infection and have been completely immobilized by it. Every movement seems like an effort, and is completely exhausting. My head feels like it weighs 100 pounds. I feel so unlike myself - lethargic, sore and tired. All I've wanted to do is rest. I wonder if this is how some of the residents at Walpan feel -- spent by the slightest exertion. I am grateful to know that I won't feel like this tomorrow (or maybe the next day). It would be a completely different experience not to have the expectation that I will feel better in a day or two. I guess nothing really compares.

A Glimpse of An Alternate Reality

My teacher, Jennifer Kohl , just returned from a trip to an orphanage in Equador. The orphanage was "adopted" by my friend and fellow yoga teacher, Denise Brown and her husband Owen. During a community service trip to Equador, they came upon theorphanage in Guayaquil, Equador, where older children who are considered "un-adoptable" live until adulthood. The Browns were so taken by these children, that they created a foundation called Childhood Promise . Over the years they have raised enough money to bring better sanitation, nutritious food, healthy drinking water, and better education to these kids. They organized this trip so that Jen could help train the staff to do yoga and teach yoga to the children.

Jennifer's emails to us from Guayaquil could barely contain how moved and transformed she was by her experience with these children, the staff and the Peace Corps volunteers who work there. I was reminded of how important it is to step out of the comfort zone of our lives and into a completely different experience. Years ago, I lay on a float in the Mediterranean off of the beach in Tel Aviv during the summer of my sophomore year of college. The waves were soft and gentle; the sky was a perfect periwinkle blue; the hum of Hebrew buzzed around me, and the sound of kadima balls softly echoed off paddles as if many miles away. I felt as if I were made of light; I was completely relaxed, content, weightless, eternal and calm. I remember thinking, "no matter what happens in my life, I can always remind myself that halfway across the world, this place and this feeling exists."

Another similar memory is of coming home around dinnertime when I was working as a lawyer. My usual schedule was to leave Glen Ridge on the 8 AM train, and return at around 10 PM in a town car from the firm. Of course, by then, the streets were quiet and hushed. All around me, children were tucked into bed in their homes; curtains were drawn and lights were dim. But when I left at 5 PM -- a rare occasion and for me, a half day -- I was always amazed at the rush of people teeming onto the streets, down into the PATH train and going home. These were people who left work to a life beyond their jobs; whether filled with children, pets, hobbies, or simply relaxation. It was as though there were two separate realities -- the one I was getting a glimpse of, and the one I usually lived in.

Jennifer went to Guayaquil to give the orphans the gift of yoga, hoping that it would help them to better cope, and find happiness and peace. While I have no doubt that she enriched the lives of everyone she touched there, what she received -- a glimpse of another reality -- gave her more happiness and peace than she could have ever hoped to give. She came home transformed by the people she met, who gave her exactly what she needed.

Conscious Choices

Every day we are confronted with millions of choices. How we make a choice, and what we choose, is determined by so many factors -- past experiences, influence of others, our senses, our teachers, peer pressure and other outside influences, etc. It would be naive to think that our choices are ever random or ours alone; all of our life experiences play a part in every choice we make. And each choice we make influences future choices.

For the past few years, I have tried to evaluate my choices in light of what brings the greatest amount of good, and the least amount of harm, to others. While psychologists urge us to make choices based on what feels good or makes us happy, experience teaches that taking care of others is the only thing that brings lasting happiness. For example, visiting Nikky, and making her happy, brings me much more and longer-lasting joy than a new pair of shoes (not that shoes don't work too). Or refraining from yelling at someone is much better than yelling, which will only make me feel agitated and upset, as well as upset the other person. As the saying goes, if you can change the situation, why get upset? If you can't change the situation, why get upset? In yoga, this practice is called ahimsa or doing no harm . Some of the choices I've made to "do no harm" (or at least less harm) are switching to organic house cleaning products and foods, being very aggressive about recycling and conserving, and becoming a vegetarian. None of these choices have been difficult -- they all happened gradually and felt natural. No big deal.

But yesterday I had an experience that was almost the straw that broke the camel's back. I went to our local Whole Foods to buy some produce. The nice thing about shopping at Whole Foods is feeling like all the right grocery choices have already been made for you. But there, above each fruit and vegetable, was a sign saying where the item was grown. And there I was, confronted with a hard choice -- how can I buy grapes that were grown in Costa Rica, even if they are organic, knowing that a plane brought them here and therefore purchasing them leaves a big carbon footprint? And the strawberries I love so much were grown in Chile -- same problem. Why did Whole Foods have to give me this much information? I had to make a choice, and sadly passed the grapes and strawberries by, for Macintosh apples grown in upstate New York.

Sometimes, it is easier not to know the facts. Nikky, for example, lives a choice free life. Annette helps her wash and dress each morning and evening, picking out her clothes. In the dining room, Olga serves Nikky her food -- there is no menu to choose from or decisions to make. There is no agonizing about how to prioritize the day, no list to check off, no appointments to juggle. Just living each moment.

Not that I would trade places. Not yet. I just hope that if and when I get to Nikky's stage of life, I can relax in my lack of choices. There is definitely a peace to be found in a simple life.

Point of View

One of my favorite characters in "The Phantom Tollbooth" is Alec Bing, a boy whose feet are three feet off the ground. Alec thinks that Milo must be very old to have reached the ground already. He is astonished to learn that in Milo's world, people start on the ground and grow up, and never know where their heads will end up until they get to their full height. Alec thinks this is a very silly system, "Then your head keeps changing its height and you always see things in a different way. Why, when you're fifteen things won't look at all the way they did when you were ten, and at twenty everything will change again." Unlike Milo, Alec always sees things from the same point of view.

I was thinking about this yesterday after I visited Walpan. After lunch, I took Nikky outside to the front porch. We sat and felt the warm breeze and marveled at the vibrant colors of the flowers. When I told her I had to leave, she complained that the visit was so short and the time went by too fast. From her point of view, my visit made the day different and exciting. From my point of view, the time I spend with Nikky is almost time that stands still. It is calm and serene, and one of the few times in my day that moments are full and ripe. Before and after my visits to Walpan, I jump in and out of a life crammed with tasks and destinations: illustrating, running the Glen Ridge community theater program, teaching and studying yoga, not to mention playing with, chauffering, supervising, feeding and cleaning up after children. My wonderful husband indulges all of my activities and is proud of me for all I do, even though I always feel like I'm neglecting him. In contrast, before and after I leave Walpan, Nikky's days are the same -- sitting, sleeping, and walking the short distance from her room to the dining room.

Even though she and I are in the same time and place, sharing the same moments, our experience of the visit is not at all the same except that we are both happy to be in each other's company. Even our experience of the passing of time is different. During our visits, time stands still for me. For Nikky, time flies. When I leave, our experience of time reverses. In my life, there is never enough time. For Nikky, days are long and filled with stillness.

In his transformative book, "The Diamond Cutter," Geshe Michael Roach talks about the importance of putting yourself in someone else's shoes, and seeing the world through their eyes. He calls it the "Jampa" method, after a bhuddist monk who had an intuitive ability to anticipate other's needs. Without speaking, he knew just how they felt and what they needed. He was able to see through their eyes, and feel with their feelings. We often get so caught up in our individual experiences of the world that we come to believe that our way is the only way -- our conclusions about what is happening are the right ones. It is very useful to stop, and try to see the world as someone else is living it. Even someone in the next seat is having a completely different experience. This is a very useful exercise, particularly when the point of view we are taking causes unhappiness. How does the experience look from another point of view? Just thinking that thought can change your life.

Following Your Curriculum

Ram Dass has a great way of putting things. He says that whatever is going on in our lives -- job; family obligations -- is our "curriculum." And our job is to do the best we can with the most positive attitude we can muster. As in school, not every course is a favorite, but we still give our best effort and try to get that "A."

I try to remind myself of this when I feel like I just can't cut the crusts off another peanut butter and potato bread sandwich. But being a mom, and all that goes with it, is part of my curriculum. And so as I spread the peanut butter, I chant "love and magic," and put a special note in Samy's lunchbox, reminding myself of the smile it will bring to her face.

When I was in my 20's, I was so scared of life's curriculum that I used to wish I could just fast-forward to the end of my life, knowing all that had gone before. I didn't want to do the living; I just wanted to have the memories. The magnitude of all that was possible -- both the pleasure and the pain -- was so terrifying that I just wanted it to be behind me. I wanted to be like the residents of Walpan, just sitting quietly, watching the world, and looking back.

Some of the residents of Walpan are content and peaceful. Others, like Richard, are lonely and sad. And others, like Nikky, don't even have their memories. And then there's my grandmother, Elsie, who left this world in 2002. She was so angry in the end -- angry at getting old and losing her strength and independence -- that she had no joy in the last years of her life. And my other grandmother, Leah, was so debilitated by Parkinson's Disease, that she had no control of her body at the end. So jumping ahead to the finish line doesn't guarantee peace.

Gradually, over the last 20 years, I learned to embrace life. I learned that the most difficult and painful experiences are the ones that teach us the most about who we are. Life is, truly, one long series curriculum; with the right attitude, most of the "courses" are fun, as well as educational. The first reading in Sri Swami Satchidananda's wonderful collection of essays, "The Golden Present," talks about the importance of embracing all of life in a wonderful piece called "Jump the Hurdles." It reads, in part:

"Life must be a challenge. Only then is it exciting. In an obstacle race, you are forced to surmount all the obstacles: to jump over the hurdles, go through barrels, crawl under rugs, climb over walls. What would happen if, to avoid all that, you went around all the obstacles and asked for the winner's cup? Would they give it to you? No. They would say, "You must go back and face all the obstacles." Life is a game, and we are proving ourselves ... If your life is always smooth, when you have great grandchildren you won't be able to sit back and tell them about all the adventures you had."

My curriculum certainly has been, and is now, rich as well as eclectic: Acting, law school, marriage, motherhood, divorce, marriage, more motherhood, teaching, producing community theater, visiting Nikky, illustrating and painting .... I don't know if my report card will be all "A's," but I will certainly have lots of adventures to tell my great grandchildren.

Living in the Moments In-between

So often, when I go to Walpan, the residents are sitting quietly, either outside if the day is nice, or on chairs and couches in the center hall and living room. Sometimes the T.V. is on, but sometimes there is just quiet. Most of the residents don't interact with each other. They just sit. They are in-between. In-between meals, in-between visitors, or just in-between what their lives were like before Walpan and the end of life. The "in-between" has become the entirety.

The Moments In-between

In meditation, you start by watching your breath go in and out. And when thoughts arise, and you realize you are no longer watching your breath but have been swept away by your thoughts, you gently come back to the breath. It's not that you should stop thinking -- really, you can't (and who would want to) -- it's that by coming back to the breath, and stopping the identification with the thoughts, you realize that you are not your thoughts. You are the being that can observe your thoughts, and even re-direct them if they are not taking you on a positive journey. Sometimes, I think of this as the place beyond or behind my thoughts. It's a stillness. A feeling of "I am that I am," without labels, characteristics or attributes. Just essence.

As you get more and more comfortable with meditation, you can redirect your attention to the moment in-between the inhale and exhale, and the exhale and inhale. And then, you can start to lengthen that moment, until it hardly feels like you are breathing at all. It's like the concentration and barely breathing you experience when you are immersed in a great book, or watching your newborn sleep. Complete and single focus. And the moments in-between the breath become as important, or more so, than the breath itself.

You use the breath as a focus because it is constant and it is a metaphor for our highest, holiest, intention or hope. It's also a metaphor for the experiences of our life. How often do think of our day in terms of the destinations we must get to or the things we must do before nightfall? For example; today I have to get my children ready for and to school; then teach or take yoga; come home; check my email; go to the third floor and complete an art assignment; pick up from school; go to activities or playdates; organize dinner; do the bedtime thing; check email again; make lunches for tomorrow; go to bed. And as we go from one "thing" to another, the moments in-between can get lost. But sometimes, that's where so much is happening.

I found Nikky in a "moment in-between." I had picked up at school, and was headed home to that next moment, and there she was. If I hadn't stopped; if I had just kept on to the next moment, I would have missed her. And my life is undeniably richer because of having found her.

As a child, one of the most influential books I read was The "Phantom Tollbooth," by Norton Juster. It's the story of a boy named Milo, who is bored and disaffected, and doesn't pay attention to anything in his life because he doesn't see the purpose of anything: "When he was in school he longed to be out, and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he thought about coming home, and coming home he thought about going. Wherever he was he wished he were somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why he'd bothered. ... As he and his unhappy thoughts hurried along (for while he was never anxious to be where he was going, he liked to get there as quickly as possible) it seemed a great wonder that the world, which was so large, could sometimes feel so small and empty."

So often, we live our lives like Milo -- rushing from point A to point B, without seeing what is on the way. As Emily says in "Our Town," we all go so fast, we don't even have time to look at one another." And in each moment in-between -- each soul we pass on our way to a destination -- whole worlds are unfolding. Each person hurrying to the train in the morning; each parent kissing a child goodbye at school; is part of a drama that of which we have no clue. And sometimes, like with Nikky and me; those worlds collide in the moment in-between.

Today's Visit

I was heading home after dropping Mariel off at her job at the yoga studio and decided, spur of the moment, to go visit Nikky. It was 4:30 and dinner at Walpan is at 5PM. Nikky was in her room, and looked inquisitively at me when she opened the door. "It's me, Nikky, your friend Jessie -- your paysan." "Oh yeah, it's you. I was hoping to see you today." We made our way into the dining room and sat down. We opened up her photo album, and went through the pictures of Jerry, her husband, and Lucille and Frankie, and her friend Delvina. On a prior visit, I had labeled them all with whatever names she could remember.

We got to the picture of me and my family. "What's this one? This must-a got in here by mistake." "Nikky, look at me," I said. "Now look at the picture." "Yeah??" "Look again at the picture. Now look at me." "Oh my goodness. Look, that's you," Nikky said. "Look at that. You were such a pretty girl. And you've hardly changed at all in all these years! You're lookin' real good!" Nikky turned to Richard. "Doesn't she look just the same? She's my good friend. We go way back." Richard and I smiled at eachother.

By now, Nikky was holding my hand and telling me that I was always such a good girl, and blessing me for being so good to her. We sang our songs together, which makes her so happy. She has her own sense of melody -- going way higher or way lower than the actual notes -- but it really brings her such joy. Her eyes sparkle, she smiles and pumps my had in the rythm of the song. "God love ya."

Then her food came and I said I had to go get my husband's food ready. "Oh yeah -- I know how that goes. I remember doin' that. Do I still have one of those?" "No," I said. "That's o.k.," said Nikky, with a shrug and a dismissive wave of her hand. "No problem."

The Many Visits Since

Since finding Nikky, I have visited her two or three times a week. The first few times followed a familiar pattern. I find her either in the dining room, or in her room. "Who is it," she asks, after I knock on the door? "It's Jessie," I reply. When the door opens, she looks up at me, not knowing who I am. "It's me, Nikky...Jessie," I say. "Remember?" "Oh yes, you're my friend, my good friend," she says, not knowing who I am but knowing I am friendly and that she does know me. We slowly walk into the dining room, with Nikky repeating, "Nikky and Jessie, Nikky and Jessie," and sit down at her table. "Can we look at your pictures," I ask? "What pictures," she replies? "Let's look in your purse and see if you have any pictures." Nikky slowly opens her purse, and sees the purple plastic photo album we made together. "What's this? This isn't mine," she says. "Let's see," I reply. We look inside and see the sticker with her name on it. "That's me," she says with surprise. And then she tells me about each picture. "This is my daughter Lucille." "This is Frankie, the cop." And then we get to the picture of me and my family. She looks at it. "Who is that," I ask, pointing to me. "I don't know," she replies. "Who is that?" "Look at me," I say. "That's you," Nikky says excitedly. And then, always, "You're my friend, my good friend. God love you."

Sometimes I tell her the story of how I found her. "Oh yeah, I was lost," Nikky remembers. "You were my angel, God love you." But sometimes I don't remind her, and she reminisces, "You're my good friend. We go way back." Or she tells me stories about her big brother Frankie, always adding, "the cop." "You remember Frankie," she says. Always, we hold hands, and she leans into me saying, "God love you."

Every time I leave, I feel very blessed.

My First Visit to Walpan

I think it was Monday, March 12, that I found Nikky. I had just returned on the 10th from a one week retreat in Maya Tulum, Mexico, that had been very transformative. The retreat was led by Kelly Morris , and Alyssa Scheunneman , on the Buddhist concept of emptiness. We had meditated for an hour each day followed by a 3 hour yoga practice (with breakfast inbetween!) Realizing emptiness is to see how the world really works, so that we can become like angels who can help an unlimited amount of people live lives free from suffering. It seemed like no accident that I found Nikky two days after coming home from this retreat.

I went to visit Nikky the next day at Walpan Residence. Walpan is a big old dutch colonial house on a residential street. It was probably once a gracious mansion, but is now divided up into many rooms for the 17 seniors who live there. It is a soft yellow with big white columns and is set back and raised up on a hill that slopes gently up from the sidewalk. To the right of the center hallway, is a sunny dining room, and to the left, the kind of living room you would find in your great-grandmother's house.

Nikky was sitting in the dining room at what I learned was her table, looking out of the window. I later learned that she often sits there from the end of breakfast through lunch, unless someone leads her back to her room. I sat down next to her and gave her a big smile and a hello. She smiled back at me, "Oh, hello," but there was no recognition. I told her the story of how we met, and she was so surprised. "How did I get there," she asked? And we just smiled about it. I had brought two plastic photo albums with me, and asked her if we could put her pictures in them. "What pictures," she asked. "Let's see if you have pictures in your purse," I suggested. We opened it up (she doesn't go anywhere without that purse), and she seemed surprised to find so many pictures inside. We looked at each one, and had the same conversation about them that we had had the day before. Slowly, we put them in the plastic albums. I wrote her name, address and phone number on stickers, and we put them on the inside jackets of the albums. She slowly read the stickers. "That's my name!" she said. "I live in Montclair?" she asked. Yes, I said.

I gave Nikky a picture of me, Freddie, Mariel and Samy to put in her album. "What beautiful girls," she said. "You're my friend, my good friend," she told me. "God love you."

Finding Nikky

When I first saw Nikky, she was holding onto the street sign on a small traffic island where Freeman Parkway intersects with Bloomfield Avenue. I was driving Mariel and her friend Leah home from school. Something was clearly not right and I stopped the car and got out to ask this little old woman if she was ok. She remembered her first and last names -- Nicolina Catalano -- but that was all she could tell me, except that she wanted to go to Bambergers. I am old enough to know that Bambergers hasn't been around in a long time. My first impressions of Nikky were that she appeared to be in her 80s and was lost. She came up to just above my elbow (making her maybe 4' 6" tall) and was wearing matching sweat pants and a sweat shirt and holding a battered black pocketbook. I asked her if she would get in my car so I could bring her to my house and help her figure out where she should be. "Sure", she said, "Why not?" We walked very slowly back to my car. (By now there were about 5 cars lined up behind me waiting to go across Bloomfield Avenue. But not one of them beeped. All the drivers seemed to understand that there was someone here who needed help.) Nikky could hardly walk --she was very unsteady and took very small steps. She held onto my arm with a tight grip, saying over and over, "God love you." She seemed to trust me completely.

Helping her into the back seat of my Suburu Forrester was no easy task. She smiled at the girls, saying "What beautiful girls -- God love you," over and over until we went home. After dropping off Leah, we shuffled slowly into my house and I sat her down in the living room. Mariel went to the kitchen to bring her a glass of water and when she came back into the living room, it was clear that Nikky had no memory of her and asked, who is this beautiful girl? Initially, all Nikky could tell me was her name. After a little while, I asked her if I could look in her purse because maybe it would give us some clues. She was nervous to let go of it, but then did. All it had inside were some old photos, and dollar bills. No i.d. But the photos helped her remember that she had a brother, Frankie, who was a cop. I called the Glen Ridge Police Department, but there was no Catalano on the staff. As Nikky relaxed, she began to talk more about her home in Newark across from Independence Park and St. James Church. But I later found out that everything she remembered was from over 30 years ago.

The GR Police eventually tracked down a Frank Catalano who works in the Sherrif's department in Newark and he turned out to be Nikky's grandson. Until Frank was able to come, Nikky and I sat in my living room holding hands -- with her repeating the mantra "God love you," or "Thank God for you" over and over. She knew she didn't know... but she didn't know what it was that she didn't know.

Frankie, her grandson, finally came. Nikky didn't know who he was, but knew that she should trust him. He told us that she had Alzheimers , and lived in a senior center called "The Walpan Residence" on Christopher Street in Montclair. The residence is about a mile and a half from where I found her, and there is absolutely no way she could have walked there alone. But by then, she did not remember where I had found her, or that she had even been lost, and there was no way to find out from her how she got there. Frankie slowly got her to come with him to his car to take her back to Walpan. By then, I felt an intense connection with Nikky, and knew she would somehow be a part of my life from that day on.