How do you talk to an elephant?

CATHARINE COOPER

An elephant sits in the middle of the room. He’s metaphorical, of

course, but his presence is felt as if all 12,000 pounds of him

actually dented the floor. He’s a large hunkering lump of space

consumption that we wish would move away. He is that something about

which we cannot talk.

You know what I mean. He represents the issue that’s burning in

our hands, but too highly charged or emotionally sensitive to speak

of directly. The friend whose child has recently been arrested for

drug dealing. The 502 that put another friend in jail. The lump on

the breast, which is not benign. The dark spot on the lung scan. The

homeless man passed out on the sidewalk. The corporate lifer, who at

58, has just been laid off.

It’s not that we can’t talk, it’s just that it’s difficult. We

speak of the event, but skitter around the contextual meanings. We

circle the room, make idle chatter and find ourselves somewhat

tongue-tied, struggling with feelings of inadequacy. How to make what

is horrid, OK? Not an easy task.

A good friend of mine, while at work in foreign country, drove an

ATV off a cliff and fractured his cervical vertebrae. In an instant,

what was normal was irrevocably changed. His wife was watching a

stunning sunset as the accident occurred, unaware that her night

would be one without sleep. Later, she described the hours that

followed as those of continuously holding space: waiting for what was

unknown to be revealed, waiting for him to be airlifted home, waiting

for the doctors to impart their measured diagnosis. In the weeks that

have followed, we have all learned to wait for that which cannot be

hurried. We have hungered for him to be released for home.

We talk around how their lives have changed. We circle the

difficulties of his recovery and rehabilitation. We don’t know

whether to be cheerful or serious. We offer whatever help we can

divine, and hope that we will be called upon to assist.

Walter, Linda’s nephew, is a giant of an 11-year old. I call him a

giant, because, even with his small body wracked with cancer, his

spirit is indefatigable. He has seen more of the inside of a hospital

in the past year than most of us will see in a lifetime, yet remains

cheerful and optimistic on his worst days. Linda has gifted him a

computer, so that he can e-mail and “chat” with other cancer kids

across the country. We talk about his illness, but we don’t delve

deeply into the complete chaos that has become his family structure.

Inadequate to fix much, we send love and good wishes, and silently

are thankful for our own circumstances and health.

Richard advises that I’m too cheerful or optimistic when

confronted with adversity in my life. It may be true that the old

cheerleader rears her head, but given the choice of blinding sorrow

or forward-looking opportunities, I’ll select the later at every

turn.

Michael tells me, “God will have his way. You may or may not

really believe, but it never hurts to pray.” I’ve taken his words to

heart, shared them with friends, and now impart them to you.

There is a saying in the Talmud, (forgive me if my quote is not

perfectly correct), “If you believe in God, then God made this all

for you. If you don’t believe in God, then God made this all for

you.”

The elephant in my room becomes a metaphor for a larger issue,

which is our journey here on earth. The stunning sunset, the bodily

injuries and diseases, when placed in a broader context, are merely

part of the baggage of our human endeavor. What we don’t talk about,

challenges our emotional growth and our language skills. It begs us

to be better and more. In the last breath, it speaks to how we hold

each other, and what we are willing so share.

* CATHARINE COOPER loves wild places. She can be reached at

ccooper@cooperdesign.net.