I used to believe in independence. No, it was more than that. I used to be proud of what I thought of as my ability to be independent, the idea I had of myself as a self-made woman. It was a natural assumption in many ways. I'm an American, and a Western one at that, steeped in an environment where the mythology of the lone cowboy and determined homesteader is still writ large.
My personal mythology of independence was nonsense, of course. I was born into a middle-class family, brought up in towns where education was readily available, and possessed a skin color that made it relatively easy for me to find a job or a place to live. But that belief persisted until I became disabled in my mid-30s. Suddenly, I was dependent. On tools, like crutches and wheelchairs. On people, who could open heavy doors or reach groceries on high shelves. Even on governments, that built ramps and curb cuts (or did not).
The lesson has stuck. I now recognize the myriad ways I’m connected to others, as well as the interconnectedness of all things, from the farmer who grows my food to the bees that pollinate the crops. But I’m not done learning. I recently returned from a trip to Italy with a friend. Though I did an extensive amount of research and planning regarding accessibility (and though I do not use a wheelchair at present), I found traveling there a challenge. So many stairs—in buildings, on trains, even on the routes to the elevators I’d scoped out beforehand. But also, so many people—strangers—who reached out to me. The fellow travelers who helped me board the trains. The hotel employee who tried to fix my broken hand splint on his day off. The young man who carried my luggage for blocks after helping me off the train.
The kindness of these strangers underpins my all memories of that trip, giving substance to the photograph-moments. And that’s the new lesson I learned: that interdependence is not merely a fact, it’s the underlying beauty that imparts meaning to life.
Comments