Shoe shine

Gestures for a lonely world

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

In April 2020, as the Covid-19 pandemic was unleashing its wrath all over everything, my 92-year-old mother had a heart attack and a stroke. Remarkably, she survived, and after a month of isolated hospitalization and rehabilitation, she was able to move back into her townhome where she’d lived on her own since 2008. Caregivers came and went around the clock. One of my brothers was able to stop by daily and bring her for meals with his family on a regular basis. The eldest of us siblings visited every four to six weeks. I called every afternoon and made the 800-mile journey every two months.

When lockdown restrictions eased, people took her out to lunch, to the nail salon, and to the fitness center, where the staff always made a warm, welcoming fuss over her. All things considered, she was relatively busy and had plenty of companionship. But she was still lonely. She didn’t trust the caregivers. She longed for her independence. She missed the people who knew her story. Friends and family who’d caught the glory train before her left too many holes in her heart. She waited another nine months before she got her own ticket out. I want to believe she’s reconnected with all those people now. She sure would love that.

Loneliness doesn’t always look like being alone. Sometimes it comes in on a full calendar and surrounded by others but still starved for the familiar, the meaningful, the missed.

Sometimes it looks like going against the grain.

A lot of the farmers I work with are trying to do the right thing, environmentally. They differ widely in what they grow, the sizes of their farms, and how they manage them, but they’re all making efforts to implement practices that benefit the health of the soil. By adopting systems that require fewer costly inputs, they stand to gain financially while improving the odds that their farmland will be able to sustain extreme weather events. They also have a lot at stake, because they’re adding unfamiliar practices to an already complex process. Their operations aren’t the same as their father’s or their neighbor’s, which makes them a target for jokes, ridicule, and potential failure.

Trailblazers and ecological heroes who are dedicated to farming with future generations in mind, they are nonetheless outliers. Many of them describe a lonesome journey in which they don’t quite fit with any community. But they stick with it because they believe in it.

Sometimes loneliness isn’t a result of distance or loss, but of conviction. Of choosing a harder road and watching others walk the easier one.

And other times, it looks exactly like we imagine it.

For the past 18 months, a man in my community—we’ll call him Leo—has chosen to live without housing. His clothes need laundering or replacement, options he could access if he wished. I’m told, by those who know more than I about the circumstances, that he refuses to accept available family resources, a decision influenced by mental health challenges. Because our small town lacks a significant population of unhoused people, he is noticeable. But he also stands out for another reason: Leo is always alone. He avoids eye contact and generally doesn’t respond to greetings.

Last week, after spending an hour or more working in the community garden, I noticed him lingering nearby and asked, on a whim, if he wanted one of my cucumbers. “No, thanks,” he said. Though he declined, it made me feel good that he did so audibly. I decided to take it a step further. “Just picked…,” I offered, explaining with a laugh that I was a little overrun with them. I think I heard him chuckle, but I can’t be sure.

Loneliness isn’t always a matter of circumstance. It can be tied to health, to trust, to pride, or to wounds that no one else can see. Sometimes, all we can offer is a cucumber and a little dignity. And sometimes, even that helps.

We are lonely, people. In fact, according to recent data, 58% of American adults are experiencing loneliness even as our post-pandemic social activities return to normal. As is the case with most displeasure and disappointment, loneliness is rooted in unmet expectations. When our desired level of social interaction is greater than what we actually get, we feel lonely. But the quality of our interactions also plays a part. Having people to talk to isn’t the same as having access to people with whom we share something in common.

Prolonged loneliness can cause us to question our worth, and once feelings of self-doubt creep in, we’re set up for a feedback loop of sadness, with negativity fueling the likelihood for even more isolation. For someone who has lost faith in themselves, their community, or their reason for carrying on, the hole is dark and deep. “It’s no use carrying an umbrella if your shoes are leaking.” So goes the Irish proverb. The trouble with loneliness is you might not even realize your feet are soggy.

Some individuals are able to hoist themselves up from the bottom of the well with self-driven efforts to reengage, but frankly, that seems like a lot to ask. So, if we’re going to find ways to fill the pervasive void in the lives of our friends and neighbors, I guess the remaining 42 percent of us need to kick it into gear. Perhaps we begin by looking for opportunities to give out shoes.

Not literally, of course, though I’m sure there are times when that might be warranted. In this instance, shoes are a metaphor for connection. If we’re well-networked, have plenty of friends or co-workers, maybe we reach through and beyond our known circles to organize neighborhood gatherings, like The Big Lunch concept that’s feeding hearts in the UK. If we’re overwhelmed by that much responsibility, or have smaller spheres of influence, there’s always a note-writing campaign, brownies for the cashier, or finally calling the folks we’ve missed. And if those ideas still feel like too much, we can simply open ourselves to the possibility of becoming the brightest light in someone’s day. Life has a funny way of bringing us to the places where we’re most needed, once we agree to be led.

It’s not always a big commitment, nor even preplanned except for the open heart it might take to see it.

Waiting at a traffic light, I glanced in my rear-view mirror and noticed a young man in the car behind me. His bright smile went clear from one side of his face to the other, and he was singing. For a moment, it puzzled me to see him turning his head to look in the opposite direction until I realized the reason: He was singing to a child in the backseat. By the time he pulled alongside me at the next intersection, I was grinning ear to ear, too. I caught his eye, rolled down my passenger window and motioned, inviting him to do the same. In those few seconds before the light turned green, we shouted back and forth to each other.

"I'm loving watching you sing!"

"I'm singing to the BABY!"

“I KNOW!! It's fabulous! You made my day!"

He wasn’t the same age as me, or the same ethnicity. We were just a couple of humans making the most of our mornings, taking in what life had to offer, and sharing joy. So simple. So delightful. Such a marvelous pair of shoes.

~Elizabeth