Lacing Shoes in Dementiaville

It was the New Year, 10 days into 2010. Romeo and I were preparing to leave the house for the day, for a day of fun and play, when he came to me, frustrated that once again that he could not tie his own shoes. For several months, he had been having difficulty with this simple task that he had been performing since he was a child, a simple task that you and I may hardly notice, a blip in our day, one of dozens of tiny chores we undertake and hardly notice as we go about our days.

I had tried to talk Romeo into getting a new pair of shoes, loafers, something he didn't have to tie, something he could simply slip into, something he wouldn't have to tie. So far, he hadn't gone for that idea. So far, he preferred the support of a lace-up shoe. He preferred that I tie his shoes for him.

On this particular morning this past January, Romeo pulled one of the dining room chairs from its place at the table and sat down, pointing his untied brown Rockports toward me. Like usual, I got down on the floor, bent over his feet, lifted the ends of the laces of the shoe on his right foot, and began to cross them to begin the tie. It was an ordinary, simple action. At least that's what you'd think.

As I began the tie on the first of Romeo's shoes, a flash of light came toward me, entered me through my head, moved throughout my body, entering every cell, corraling my attention. I noticed. As I tied Romeo's shoes, I stepped aside and let this mysterious light, this mysterious love, take over my body -- my actions, my thoughts. It moved my hands and fingers. It was in my mind. It WAS my hands and fingers. It WAS my mind. My body tingled with excitement and anticipation of the words I knew it would soon speak. I did not know what those words might be, and the few seconds it took before it began to speak hung beautifully thick in the air surrounding me, in the air and water that makes up my body. Every hair on me stood, waiting to hear as I manipulated the laces of Romeo's shoes.

The voice came. It said, "What an honor it is to tie Romeo's shoes for him."

Yes, I thought, this is truly an honor, tying Romeo's shoes. Yes, go on. I knew the voice had more to say, more it wanted to tell me.

It continued, "Many women, many men, do not get the chance, do not take the opportunity to do this for their loved one, to help them like this."

That's all the voice said. But it wasn't the voice's words that moved me. The words were a gateway, a procession toward the experience, toward the Experience, toward the EXPERIENCE. The words lead me forward, and I knew what it was trying to tell me. I Knew what it was trying to tell me. Every cell in my body was alive with knowing. Every cell in my body KNEW what that divine voice meant, who it was.

That divine voice is love, it is Romeo, it is the love that moves the universe, it is the love that moves through me, you, everyone, everything. It is the love at the heart of each one of us, the love that is each one of us. And that love is simply all there is. Everything comes down to love. When everything is stripped away, layer by layer, love is all that remains. When Romeo cannot tie his own shoes, it is love that asks me to do it for him, and it is love moving through me that does it for him. It is love that moves through me as I perform the mechanical steps to tie his shoes. It goes beyond being present with the task. It is feeling the love, the force that moves the universe, flowing through me, loving Romeo, loving shoe laces, loving the rhythm that makes up our days.

And on that morning, 10 days into 2010, I finished tying Romeo's shoes, rose from my place by his feet, noted the symbolism of shoes (representing the soul, the point of contact between Romeo's body and the Earth, a principle of reality), and let the voice's message sink deeper into my cells, and then back out again, into and through Romeo, into and through our home, out the door and into and through the world. That divine love continues to flow, and it continues to live and breathe us, to move the universe.