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I met him in one of the anthroposophical care communities in Belgium, where he had lived for many years. We often sat together at the table — I across from him — and from time to time, he would bring his hands to his face. Not to hide, but perhaps because the world felt like too much, or because words were slowly slipping away.
But what if you never had words, or had fewer of them each day?
Physically, he was present — calm and grounded — but at times, the connection between us would quietly fade into the space between. And yet, without speaking, we shared moments that stayed with me more deeply than most conversations ever could. There was gentleness, mutual care, and a silent presence that asked for nothing, yet gave so much.
We too easily speak of limitation when someone doesn’t or no longer communicates in the usual ways — as if speech were the only valid form of connection. But being with him showed me otherwise. Relationships can unfold in silence, gestures, rhythm — in simply being together.
At the same time, those moments revealed something tender: the grief of holding someone close as they slowly begin to drift away. His hands over his face speak not of resistance, but of pause, overwhelm — a quiet retreat.
A tribute to those who remain — and those who slowly disappear, without ever fully leaving.
(Image is part of my series ‘Living connections’)
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