OF BINARY STARS, PERSIAN RUGS, AND OTHER THOUGHTS UNROLLED

JANUARY 9, 2022 – Friday evening, dear friends called. Together they’re a tour de force in innumerable cultural, intellectual, and philanthropic corners of the Twin Cities—and far beyond. They’ve also weathered personal challenges that would cause lesser souls to fold. They’re a phoenix pair, who’ve squeezed more from life than life knew it possessed. This down-to-earth couple are stars of my universe.

On the call they imparted support, encouragement, practical advice, and affirmation: for many months, it turns out, this couple, this “binary star,” has become deeply familiar with the same clinic that guides my own care. With huge hearts they give generously, but beyond their “works of the heart,” these two exercise discerning intellects that “take no prisoners.” They never shy from directing laser-focused criticism where such is due, however much it might raise defensive hackles. That background underscores the credibility of their unqualified praise of the clinic. “They’re the best you could find—anywhere,” they told me.

This reassurance squares with what another dear and discerning friend with direct experience told me a week ago; a friend whose husband is also under the care of the same clinic and who, with her husband, another “binary star” and mutually acquainted with the “binary star” who illuminated my world on Friday evening. The four are stars of the same constellation.

As I prepared to sleep later that evening, however, matters that thrive more in the dark of night than in the light of day disturbed my thoughts. In my escape attempt, I slammed into this thought: every single person I know and love is mortal. All control of my pondering unraveled. Like a pack of unleashed dogs, my thoughts ran wild. Their howling reminded me of my dad’s statement about mortality when he stood at the abyss we all must face. “Of the billions upon billions of people who’ve walked the earth before us,” he said, “not a single person—not a one—has survived.” Those of us gathered chuckled—as did he himself.

This time ’round, however, I wept. I thought further about all the wonderful—but wholly mortal—people I love and cherish. Suddenly, the wild dogs disappeared, and rationality returned. Our lives must stop at an insurmountable wall, I thought, so that life can exist in the first place—and unfold as it does. The planet couldn’t sustain us if we all lived forever.

Grieving over mortality is like pouring tears upon the end of a hand-woven, Persian masterpiece unrolled across the great room of a friend’s existence. Each section of the rug depicts a scene from life’s treasures—birthday parties, graduation ceremonies, wedding celebrations, music experienced, books read, paintings enjoyed, mountains climbed, scenery admired, powder skied, work accomplished, places visited, et cetera multa, all surrounded by a wide border woven in gold: family loved, friendships formed. Yet, no matter how long or short, plain or intricate the unrolled carpet, it must have an end as much as a beginning.  Otherwise, no way could it fit inside the room.

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson