Brigid Slipka

About a year ago, Peter Sagal did something he said he’d never done before and made a solicitation to his followers (of which I am unabashedly a member) to help support a very dear and very ill friend of his, Jo Carson.

You can tell Peter genuinely felt the full range of emotions that one does in this position: he was unsure about whether to ask, but ultimately love for his friend trumped any residual ickiness from taking advantage of his position as an NPR-celebrity (right, as much as such a thing exists).  So he asked.

His request came just at the time that I was grappling with my own pathetic lack of generosity.  It was more because of my hurried desire to change this part of me that I made a gift; Peter’s request just materialized at that time and was one I trusted.  I did no research and applied to logic to my response.  I just followed my gut to the online donation site.  I was one of many.

(An aside: Is every person deserving of the support of hundreds of random strangers, if only they are lucky enough to count minor celebrities as friends?  At first my egalitarian-gut jerked toward yes, although now I am pausing.  Peter makes the case for Jo’s particular brand of extraordinary-ness.  I believe him thoroughly, not least because she is herself a marvelous Giver.  But I also see that bathing any one person in luminosity also casts a shadow into which the most of the rest of humanity falls.  If one person stands out from the crowd, this means not just that she is wonderful but that everyone else is not.)

In retrospect, I credit this moment as when I first dipped my toe into the idea of regular generosity, a teeny spark before the before the full philanthropic jump-start of the 40 days of giving.  I would have not considered this moment in retrospect at all, though, except that I got another email today from Peter and friends of Jo:

The gifts helped.  The first cancer got beat.  But a new cancer came.  More help was needed.

And I kinda wanted to ignore it.

I wanted to passively delete the request.  I wanted to refuse being pulled into a cycle of continuing support.  I get nervous about outlaying gifts for one person’s health, because it reminds me that while the timing’s uncertain, the final outcome is not.  I’ll give again next time, and next time, and next time, until inevitably, one of those investments will have zero ROI.  Inevitably, the gift will fail.  Inevitably, we’ll all die.

The future is death, for all of us.

But.

The future is also something entirely constructed in our minds, an abstract notion that’s useful for making appointments but nowhere near as real as the quarks that make the atoms that make the molecules that make the cells that make the tumors that make the distress currently occupying the thoughts of too many of my friends.

What matters now is not the future.  What matters now is Now.  What matters is friendship and love and art and fat baby cheeks.

Knowing where the journey ends does not give us an excuse to be blind to the wildflowers along this stretch of road right here.

So.

A gift to Jo and a renewed awe for This Moment Now.