OUT OF THE SHADOWS

My blogger friend, who lives in Australia, volunteers on a suicide hotline. 
She recently participated in a walk, Out of the Shadows, to remember those who have taken their lives and to let the families and loved ones find a way to honor them. Sue says they have a high rate of suicide in Australia and it has recently been growing.

In the comments on this post, I noticed many people speak of what suicide survivors have said about what might have prevented their efforts to take their lives.

A man said that if only one person had said a kind word to him on the bus ride to the bridge where he jumped that day, it would have kept him from wanting to die.

It doesn’t take much to make a difference in the lives of those who are desperate and feel no hope. Just a smile, a kind word, or simply taking time to listen. So many just want to know someone hears their cry of despair.

But, we don’t do that anymore. Most of us have our heads down and eyes on our smart phones, playing games, checking Twitter or whatever. We are alone in our thoughts, and we are ignoring those who need to know they are seen and that they matter.

I have written before about my delightful mother who never met a stranger in her life. If she didn’t know someone, she made sure she spoke to them and gave them her sweet smile. They felt better because they saw my mother that day – in an elevator, at the grocery store, or in a doctor’s waiting room. No one ever seemed in a hurry to leave her presence.

I often meet people who are like my mother. 
I am like mother in many ways. I like people. I get energized when I am with other people. Unlike the shy girl who was embarrassed when mother struck up a conversation with strangers, I now find myself talking to men or women when I run into them in public.

Recently while shopping at Wal-Mart, I met a delightful woman, in her mid eighties, while standing at a counter searching for items we older people sometimes need. I heard her speaking and looked to see if she was talking to me. She smiled and said, “I’m just talking to myself. I do that a lot now.”

“I do, too,” I said. “I’m the only person who listens,” I joked.

Before long we were in such a deep conversation that we had to let people get past us in the aisle. She had only lived in the area a couple of years and during that time she cared for an ailing spouse who died.

Before I left her, we exchanged our phone numbers and made plans to meet for lunch. It takes so little to give another person a lift or brighten their day. And we gain from that effort. 

I feel sorry for the younger generations that stay buried in their smart phones and never look up to see what they are missing.

I get frustrated at the people who spend more time taking photos of themselves in places they visit, than in actually learning about and enjoying the experience. I can say that, although Barry made photos everywhere we traveled, we never missed the enjoyment of meeting the people who lived there, learning the history of the land and those who settled there. We observed those around us, animals and people, and took that away stored in our memories.

I began this post with the topic of suicide which is also increasing in the United States, and I will share a poem about the first person I knew who committed suicide. It is sad, but asks the question, why? What might have made a difference?

One Flaw

Her mother heard it from the kitchen

her brother heard it above the radio

playing in his room.

She dressed in pale blue blouse

and navy skirt, silver charms around her

wrist, for her seven-thirty date with Tom.

The night before she skated at the roller rink,

blond hair flying ‘round her shoulders,

tanned legs clad in short white shorts.

Image of the perfect sixteen-year old –

Cheerleader, straight A student.

Boys wanted her. Girls wanted to be her.

At precisely seven-fifteen, she changed all that.

Her mother found her daughter’s white bedspread,

her pristine walls, her carefully chosen outfit –

and Ann, blood splattered, destroyed

                          by a single shotgun blast.

By Glenda Council Beall