Reviving the world from a broken place

Ten years ago, on a chilly December afternoon, my sister and I were in the car, driving to lunch with my dad. As we unbuckled our seatbelts, my dad tossed a letter onto my sister's lap. It was addressed to him, with a return address in Arizona.

“Dad, who is this from?” she asked. He shrugged and replied in his loud, cheerful voice, "Why don't you tell me?" a response he often gave. 

The letter had already been opened, but it wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t explain its origin. My dad suffered a traumatic brain injury (TBI) when I was six—his brain, his body, his career, his life, instantly altered. He never forgets my name, but frequently can’t recall events that have happened earlier that day, or week, or month, or year. 

I leaned over as my sister read the letter aloud. The handwriting was unfamiliar; the white paper covered with colorful doodles and elaborate sketches in ball point pen and colored pencil.

“Jim, I made it to Arizona. If it weren’t for our conversation at the coffee shop, I wouldn’t be here now. You were right. This was exactly what I needed to do. I will always be deeply grateful to you ” 

My sister and I spun our heads towards him: “Dad! Who is this from?!” 

We were met with his chuckle and a surprised, “I don’t know.” He folded up the letter and put it back in his pocket as the questions tumbled out of us: “Dad, where did you meet this guy? Why did you tell him to go to Arizona? What is in Arizona? What advice did you give him?”

My dad laughed again, “I don’t know.”

I never did get more details, but having frequented coffee shops with my dad, I can imagine the scene:

My dad, standing at the counter, his hands shaking as he pours creamer into his cup, causing a little to spill on the countertop. He apologizes to the young twenty-something guy standing next to him.

As my dad awkwardly tries to mop it up with too many napkins, 20-something moves in to help.

“You know, I got hit by a truck on my bike,” my dad explains apologetically.

Unlike many, 20-something isn't phased and continues to help, offering reassurances of “no worries” and “happy to help.”

Noticing my dad’s limp, the guy offers to carry my dad’s coffee to the table. My dad extends a hand, inviting him to sit down and join him.

They start talking, 20-something eager to unload his grieving heart to a sympathetic ear—his depression over a lost love, the ache of an estranged parent, or a passion for a job no one else supports.

My dad listens intently, offering words of encouragement, nudging 20-something to follow his heart and pursue what he longs for.

They part ways. My dad moves on, quickly forgetting their interaction, while his conversation partner is left deep in thought.

Over half of the unhoused population in the US has a traumatic brain injury and it’s not lost on me that in other circumstances, my dad’s life could have been vastly different. His connections to his family and friends are very literally how he survives.

We often think of survival in terms of life and death. But it’s so much more than food and water. Reviving the world from a broken place is going to take more than machinery and tools, collective thriving will happen in connected community.

So much of the conflict in the world today (maybe all of it) is rooted in disconnection—from ourselves, from others, and from the land.

My new art was inspired by mushrooms and the fascinating new studies about how they communicate danger and and care for each other; nature has always understood the importance of connection.

In this world where so much feels broken- what small or large moments of connection have been meaningful to you? It’s a gift to hear your stories if you care to share below in this community or hit reply.

Here’s to moments of connection small and large,

Jen

P.S. Connection images are available as prints here.